The night of the hunter
by marinoa
Summary: Neither of them is willing to fall first, and soon they are to notice that what had started as a simple game suddenly turns into something more difficult. FrUK AU, the story takes place somewhere around 19th century.
1. Chapter 1

**The night of the hunter**

**Chapter one**

Interesting. But not as interesting as it could be. Francis looked around in the dimmed hall, bringing his glass of wine to his lips with deliberate slowness and sipping the red liquid. A satisfied smile curved on the Frenchman's lips. Everything was like it should; the orchestra was doing great job, food and drinks were perfect, and his house was filled with fancy people. All his guests were wearing gorgeous dresses as well as masks that covered their eyes. Naturally, Francis was wearing one, too. His mask was deep and dark blue, so dark that it was almost black. Indeed, this was a party to Francis' taste. But still, something was missing.

A young lady approached the Frenchman. "What a wonderful night you have arranged, Mr. Bonnefoy," she said, smiling charmingly.

Francis bowed slightly. "I'm honoured to have the star of Paris shining in my house."

The compliment made her giggle. "Oh, Mr. Bonnefoy, you are exaggerating as always."

"Not at all, my fair lady."

Another young woman joined them. "Oh, Mr. Bonnefoy, how mysterious mask you have!" she exclaimed. Francis could hear from her voice that the glass of wine she had was not her first one. "It makes me want to see what you are hiding behind it..."

Francis laughed politely, inwardly snorting. _That_ kind of women he had already had enough of. "My simple mask is nothing compared to yours, my lady! It's simply something to cover my dull face."

The Frenchman knew as well as the two ladies that his face was anything but dull. Elegant, beautiful and handsome all described him well, but there was something more to it. Francis possessed something that made men and women kneel in front of him, look at him with eyes filled with lust and literally fight for his attention.

Just like now. Mentally wincing, the Frenchman excused himself and walked away from the two ladies, who had started nagging to each other. A lazy, half-hearted smile tugged on Francis' lips. He knew that probably most people attending his party would agree to come to his bed without any resistance.

Not any kind of challenge at all.

Boring.

Francis sighed, a little disappointed. In the invitations he had sent, he had encouraged his guests to bring with them few of their friends that the Frenchman didn't possibly know. But hardly anyone had brought somebody.

Francis looked at dancing, chatting and flirting men and women around him, ignoring all the admiring and wanting looks he got. He had no interest in those people – and one or two times should be enough for them, too.

Boring.

"Heya, Francis!"

Francis turned around to see a pair of crimson eyes behind a white mask. "Oh, Gilbert."

"Awesome party, buddy!" the Prussian laughed. "Chicks are dying to get near me!"

The Frenchman gave a smile to his friend. "_Oui_, here even _you_ can get someone."

Ignoring or just not noticing the insult, Gilbert emptied his glass. "You look bored."

"I am," Francis replied. "Look at these people! They are playing hard to get, but ready to do anything in order to get my attention."

"And you are _complaining_?"

"It's just... They are so monochrome."

The Prussian smirked. "So, it is challenge you want?"

"Exactly."

"If that's the case," Gilbert's smirk widened. "I have a present for you."

"Is that so?" the Frenchman said, not convinced. He already knew Gilbert and his...presents. "And what would that be?"

His friend threw an arm around his shoulders and turned him slightly. "Look there. No, not at that -_oh shit, _look how sexy chick there is standing!"

"She is not that special when you get to business," Francis said, unimpressed.

"Oh. Well, anyway. Look there, further."

Francis followed Gilbert's pointing finger and saw a young man standing near the wall, aloof.

"You see him? Good. That's Arthur. He's my cousin. Not too social, he doesn't appreciate this kind of things too much. Not much into parties, I guess. But maybe you can make him open up a little." The Prussian grinned. "And he is definitely not an easy one."

"Oh?" Francis looked at the young man. Gilbert tapped his friend's shoulder. "Good luck," he said, grinning widely. "You'll need it."

The Frenchman laughed, taking the dare. "We'll see about that."

"Have fun," Gilbert said before heading for the woman he had seen earlier. Francis, in turn, started to make his way towards the man the Prussian had introduced as Arthur.

The young man was standing apart from chatting groups, sipping his wine with a scornful expression, his appearance clearly warning to stay away. Well, as if that would stop Francis. The Frenchman smiled. Interesting...this Arthur seemed to have some potential.

_Time to hunt._

The young man had his back to Francis, as the Frenchman approached him.

"Good evening," Francis said with a low voice almost right into Arthur's ear. He was amused to see how his...prey jumped slightly and swung around. "What the bloody-" Realizing how close the Frenchman was standing, the man took a quick step back. Francis smiled at the reaction.

"Good evening," Arthur said coolly, quickly regaining his dignity.

Francis eyed him. Arthur was standing proud, slim body straight. His appearance was very sure and ...arrogant, somehow. And how... piercing emerald eyes he had behind his deep purple mask, sharp and, Francis noticed, aware. He smiled, satisfied. For once, Gilbert seemed to be right.

"I don't think we have met before, have we?" the Frenchman said. "May I know your name?"

"Kirkland," Arthur answered coldly, clearly not willing to continue the conversation.

"Nice to meet you," Francis said softly. He took Arthur's hand and brought it to his lips, but the other man snatched his hand away. Francis didn't let it bother. "I am Francis Bonnefoy."

"I know."

"Oh?"

"I find it rude not to know the name of the host whose party I'm attending."

Francis raised his eyebrow with a teasing smile. "Mm, but you don't find it rude not to bother come and greet the host?"

"I saw you were busy with other guests and figured that you didn't want to be bothered." Arthur kept his voice unimpressed. "Which I understand very well since I feel the same."

The Frenchman resisted the urge to laugh and pretended not to notice the hint. "I see." Casually he leaned little closer, just little enough to make his victim feel slightly uneasy, but not enough to step back. "So, I can hear you are English."

"I am." Arthur sipped his wine, not looking at the Frenchman.

"What made you come visit Paris, if I may ask?"

"I fail to see how that would be any of your business."

Francis cursed Gilbert inwardly. To have challenge, that was one thing, but a grumpy, haughty _Englishman_... That was something else. _Oh well._ A slow, sly smile curved on his lips. _I will get that little Englishman to his knees._

"Then, what brings you to my place tonight, _mon_ _cher_?_" _he asked. "That is an appropriate question, isn't it?"

Francis could see that his companion was getting as irritated as the Frenchman was. "My cousin asked me to come," he said, frowning a little. "And I would prefer you addressing me by my name and not in ...French." The Englishman's voice and the small pause he made between the last two words, together with his scornful face, made Francis want to hit the man. _The little bastard._

He smiled charmingly. "But how could I do that when you have not told me your full name..." Voice low and alluring, he continued. "..._Arthur_?"

How _good_ it felt to see the Brit stir a little. "Mr. Kirkland will do just fine," he almost hissed.

The smile on Francis' lips widened. "There is no need to be such formal here..." He shifted closer to the Englishman, placing his hand on the wall near the Englishman's shoulder. _I'll make you moan my name..._ Satisfied, he saw how uncomfortable his prey looked like feeling.

Then, Francis heard the music changing to tango. Perfect – the dance of passion. "Would you dance with me, _mon cher_?" he purred, offering his hand, and not waiting for the answer he took the Briton's glass and put it aside with his own glass.

"I am sorry but I hate dancing."

Francis grabbed his hand tightly, pulling him closer. "Oh but you can't say no when the host is asking."

"I _bloody well_ can." Arthur tried to pull away, but the Frenchman clasped their hands together, having his other hand on the Englishman's waist. "_Non_."

"Or perhaps it's that you can't dance?" he continued daring. "In that case you should just have told-"

The Briton took the bait. "Of course I can dance," he snorted. Francis saw the green eyes flash and grinned. He started to feel excited; despite his lousy attitude Arthur had _something_ in him. Something daring, tempting... dangerous even.

"That's what I thought." The Frenchman took the first step, leading the Brit. Arthur uttered a laughter. "You bloody swollen-headed wanker. You really think you are the one to lead?"

"Isn't that an improper way to address somebody?" Both of them moved, sharp, fierce movements, both attempting to lead. "And yes. I'll lead." To that, Arthur just snorted in response, again.

_Oh, I'll make you scream... _

The music was getting to both of them, and Francis was pleased to see that the arrogant expression of the Englishman was replaced with more passionate one. After a while their dance started to resemble a duel; they encircled each other, threatened, persuaded and tantalized, moving further just to come closer again, to cling to one another. The blue eyes didn't look away from green ones for one second and the green ones watched back, not breaking the gaze.

For few long, hot minutes neither of them spoke aloud, leaving the communication to their moving bodies. Finally, when the music died, both men stopped. They stood inches from each other, both panting and sweaty. _How delicious the Englishman was looking..._

Francis smiled slyly. "You dance pretty well for one who hates dancing."

The Englishman didn't answer. He just stood still, flushed and still breathing heavily, looking at the Frenchman.

"In fact, to me you seemed to enjoy it quite a lot." Francis lowered his face a little closer to Arthur's, looking in his emerald eyes and realizing that _he_ _wanted_ _this_ _man_. "Perhaps we should continue...elsewhere?"

"...You are despicable."

"How come?"

The Englishman turned on his heels and followed by Francis walked to his previous place to take his drink again. The Frenchman leaned casually against the wall, crossing his arms on his chest.

"I have been here in Paris for one week, and already I have heard about your...reputation more than I would have cared to." When Arthur spoke his voice was cold and indifferent, but despite his mask Francis did notice a new shade of red appearing to his face. "But now you..." He snorted and shrugged.

"And what is my reputation like, then?" Francis spoke, his voice low. "Tell me." His smile widened. _Danger_, it announced, but Arthur either couldn't read it or then took it as a dare.

"You know that well enough." The Englishman uttered, not looking at the Frenchman. "People like you are really getting to my nerves. Party there, another here, wine, music and some sex - and the night is perfect. But, nothing more can be expected of a simple Frenchman, I guess."

_I'll make you plead... _

"Really?" His voice seductive and teasing, Francis narrowed the gap between himself and the Brit a little more. The other man didn't try to regain the distance between them and the Frenchman smirked. _Got you. _"But you came here knowing perfectly well who I am, _non_?" As he saw the Brit losing his words, he smiled triumphantly.

"...True." Arthur looked with his fascinating eyes straight into Francis'. "I came here knowing perfectly well who you are." He raised his glass, absently looking at dancing people through the red liquid. "And I was disappointed," he added slowly.

Elegantly, Francis raised his eyebrow. What was this scornful Briton muttering?

The green eyes turned back at Francis. Slightly haughty smile returning to his lips, he uttered: "You didn't really live up to your reputation tonight."

_What? _Francis uttered a laughter. This Englishman...

_Merde_, he was right! It was _Francis_ who was desiring Arthur, and the Briton was actually standing up to the Frenchman. At the moment it was the Englishman who was ruling the game; and it looked like he was used to it.

Francis smirked.

"I can see that this," Arthur continued, gesturing around the hall. "Paris, is not enough for you. If you want to...experience truly something, you should visit London."

As he had said that, the Englishman bowed politely. "Well then, I shall go preparing my tomorrow's return to London. Good night, Mr. Bonnefoy." His green eyes dark, daring and mysterious in the dim lighting, Arthur threw one last glance at the Frenchman before walking away, firm and proud.

The Frenchman followed the Englishman with his eyes, still leaning against the wall, arms folded over his chest and amused smile on his lips. _This_ was truly interesting; for the first time, Francis had lost. He smiled and emptied his glass of red wine.

The first round had ended to his defeat, but the game had just started.

To London, then.

X


	2. Chapter 2

AN: Okay. So, when I wrote the first chapter, I had planned it to be only a oneshot. But apparently it won't be; some people asked for continuation and I finally thought that _why not_? Prepare to face the consequences! This fic will be my first attempt to write a multi-chaptered fic, there will probably be from 10 to 15 chapters. So... Let's see how it goes. Enjoy!

**The night of the hunter**

**Chapter two**

The air was heavy and and stale in the room, and Arthur just wanted to jump up from his seat, open all three windows and leave the whole meeting right away. But, of course, he wouldn't do that; he was one of the founders of the popular pub company, and so he just had to tolerate the boring and useless weekly meetings with his four associates.

The five men were sitting at their places at the round table, attempting to find new ways to develop their company. Wasting their time in the other words, in Arthur's opinion. Their meetings were mostly useless; as long as people went to pubs, the only job of the five founders was to share the benefits. Some changes or new tastes in the menu were good to happen once in a while, but trying to force new ideas all the time would just destroy what was already achieved. Arthur was glad that every one of the founders knew that, but what he wasn't content with, were the three older associates' attempts to keep up their image of them running the company, not only be sitting at home and counting the money they got from it. But seriously, if spending _the whole fucking day _in a stifling room gave those men a feeling of _doing_ something, walking on the street must be a wonderful adventure for them.

Arthur glanced at the clock for what felt like the hundredth time, then out of the window. It was almost eleven o'clock, it was dark outside and heavy clouds were covering the night sky, hiding the moon and stars behind their murkiness. The clouds were promising rain, and not a mere drizzle but a real torrential downpour. The Englishman sighed, tapping his foot impatiently. Since he had forgotten his umbrella at home (_again_, for the queen's sake), he wanted to be at home before the rain.

"Gentlemen!" one of the five men finally said, taking his glasses from his nose and polishing them. Arthur looked at him; a tall, sophisticated man, who's thoughts and feelings were always hidden behind the elegant, solemn face. Arthur didn't know much about him; only that he had a mind for business, in which he was very good, and that he was the only non-British person among the associates, being an Austrian. "We have been sitting here for hours; I believe we can end this meeting for today."

"I agree with Mr. Edelstein," Arthur was quick to say, noticing a blank glance from the Austrian. "It starts to be quite late already."

"Sounds good. Well then, we shall continue working on this matter in the next week's meeting, gentlemen," a middle-aged man, Mr. Shireman, said with a nod. Judging of his associates' relieved faces, Arthur assumed all of them to be eager to leave the stale room as quickly as possible.

After polite good-nights and take-cares, Arthur pulled his black coat on and stepped outside on the illuminated streets of London. If he was lucky, he would make it home before the rain started.

There were not too many people around as the Englishman walked the streets. Most of people were at their homes at this time, or then sitting in pubs or attending parties or watching theatre plays or then doing whatever they wanted but staying off the streets where the street lights could reach. It was too late to be just wandering around London with innocent intentions and too early to be returning home from pub or parties, therefore most people on the streets were probably on their way either to said activities or then home.

Majority of people that Arthur saw were walking in pairs or small groups of three, five people, talking and laughing cheerily. The Englishman sighed as he made his way past these groups to his apartment. Actually he didn't feel like going home just yet. It might be relaxing to pop into a pub for a drink or two after a long day. Arthur slowed down his steps. Indeed, that's what he would do. What would he do at home, anyway? Perhaps read a book and then go to bed, nothing more. Nothing more than the usual.

Just as Arthur was wondering in which pub he would go, the skies finally decided to open and release all the water that had been held in for the whole day, save a little drizzle in the morning. The Englishman looked up, letting out a litany or curses and fastening his steps again. Whatever. He would just go straight home; wandering around London in the bloody _downpour,_ searching for the nearest pub that wasn't filled with drunken workers and having a drink in soaked clothes didn't sound appealing enough to be worth the trouble. Looking around, Arthur had to note that there were no available carriages to take him home, so he increased the speed of his steps, feeling the water seeping into his clothes. "Fuck it," he muttered through his gritted teeth. He was living in a country where rain was more rule and definitely not an exception, and yet he had managed to forget his umbrella at home, God knew for how many times already.

"Would mister possibly be in the need of a ride?"

Arthur stopped, looking sharply in the direction of the playful voice, the derisive tone not going unnoticed. He saw a carriage halting right to the edge of the pavement he was walking on, and looked up to the driver's seat, meeting the blank face of the driver. As he realized that it had not been the driver who had talked to him, Arthur's eyes quickly moved to the small, draped window of the carriage. Not quite recognizing the voice – for sure he knew it from somewhere – he frowned. "Excuse me?"

The curtain of the window opened, revealing a condescending smile and a pair of deep, blue eyes looking down at the Englishman. Arthur blinked. That face, it was familiar, he had seen it before, could it- it couldn't... The blue-eyed man in the carriage gave a small chuckle, as the memory of the self-assertive and very seductive Frenchman back from the masquerade in Paris flashed in the Englishman's mind, bringing a stunned expression to his face. But soon the surprised look turned into another frown. What was _that_ man doing in _his_ city?

"Ah, I was merely wondering if a ride would do for a gentleman like you, _Mr. Kirkland_." Again, the man didn't even try to hide the sarcasm in his voice, and under the gaze of those blue eyes that he had previously seen behind a mask, Arthur suddenly became very aware of his already soaked clothes and probably very messy appearance. He winced slightly at the way the Frenchman had said his name; even though the way of addressing was polite, the way it was said in was just as sarcastic as the rest of the sentence. Trying to remember the Frenchman's name, Arthur didn't take a step into a way or another.

"How surprising to see you here in London, Mr. Bonn- Bonnefard," he said, hoping the name was remembered correctly. "I recall you being quite ignorant about my city."

The smile twitched on amused, elegant face. "Bonnefoy, Francis Bonnefoy. How unexpected of you to remember such a detail of our conversation, especially when you can't even remember my name. However, I figured visiting London would make me appreciate my own city even more." Before Arthur could respond, the Frenchman continued. "Unless, the way you said my name was a mere attempt to pronounce a French name with that British accent of yours."

Arthur's hands formed fists on his sides. Fuck that frog, who did he think he was? "I am sorry but did you say something? I heard only frog croaking somewhere near."

The elegant eyebrow arched, and an irritatingly haughty smile curved on the smug face of the Frenchman. "So, will you accompany me tonight or would you perhaps prefer walking wherever you were... in the rain?"

Water insistently falling on him, Arthur resisted the urge to accept the offer, eager to get out of the cold rain but his pride stopping him. The two horses in front of the carriage shifted impatiently and the driver hushed them. The Frenchman was still waiting, questioningly looking down at the Englishman. A cold breeze blew through Arthur.

_Fuck it all, fuck it down to the deepest hell. _"Where to?" he asked through his gritted teeth, swallowing his pride.

"Wherever you wish, Arthur," the Frenchman said, visibly oh so_ annoyingly_ amused. Arthur just wished he wasn't higher than him. "Since I don't know this city and what's worth visiting, you tell us where to go. If here even is anything, that is, especially at this time of day."

That's it. That's fucking it! How _dare_ that Frenchman, that _frog_, insult his city like that! His London!

Very well. Arthur would accept his offer... No, his _challenge_.

Opening the door of the carriage with a furious movement that made the Frenchman slightly stir, the Englishman climbed in and sat on the seat opposite to Francis. "Why, thank you," he said sweetly, the most polite smile on his lips. "I shall introduce London to you, then. And I assure you, Mr. _Bonnefoy_, that when you see this gorgeous city, you will lose all your appreciation towards Paris. You'll see that my city has much more to offer than yours ever could, and," Arthur made a small pause. "since we are not among frogs but _people_ here, please try to behave yourself properly."

The blue eyes flashed dark light in the dim carriage, and a low chuckle that escaped Francis' lips sent a shiver run up the Englishman's spine. "I see." Francis smiled dangerously, in the same way as he had done at the masquerade in Paris about two, three weeks ago. And just like then, that smile made Arthur's gut wrench momentarily. "I shall accept your challenge then, Arthur."

X


	3. Chapter 3

**The night of the hunter**

**Chapter three**

"I agree," Francis said, leaning back in his chair. "London is far more beautiful and and far more interesting city that Paris could ever be. How could I ever have thought differently?" He looked at Arthur, raising his eyebrows and crossing his arms across his chest. "So that's what you want me to say, Arthur?"

Arthur gave him a glare. "That's what you _will_ say, Mr. Bonnefoy, because that's how it is. I only hope there is enough gentleman left in you to admit the truth."

It was the the following day of their meeting in London. The two men were in Arthur's apartment, the Frenchman sitting on a dark green clothed chair while the Englishman was walking restlessly around his living-room, waiting for water to boil in the kitchen. Francis watched him wandering to the chest of drawers and looking absently at some photographs, probably of his family, then moving to a bookshelf and running his fingers across the edges of well-arranged books. There were three bookshelves in Arthur's living-room; apparently this little Englishman loved to read.

As he silently followed Arthur's movements in the room, Francis let his gaze wander around the apartment. As far as he could see, the Englishman seemed to prefer dark colours; all the furniture seemed to be mostly different shades of green and dark wood. It was almost like Arthur had tried to create a forest-like feeling in his apartment, a feeling of dark and unknown forest. Francis couldn't help a small smile forming on his lips. Whether it had or hadn't been a conscious intention of the Englishman, he had succeeded in creating the interesting whole ensemble, which he even seemed to be a part of. With his forest-green eyes and messy hair, Arthur truly looked like he could be a goblin from old fairy tales, a goblin in his secret kingdom. Francis gave a small chuckle at the thought, earning a frown from the Englishman.

"What are you laughing at?"

"Nothing, nothing." Francis gave him a coy smile, which the playful look in his eyes ruined. "I just thought that this apartment suits you perfectly."

"Coming from you, that was hardly a compliment," Arthur snorted. "And could you _please_ stop staring at me, Mr. Bonnefoy?"

"But of course." Francis smiled. "If you start calling me by my first name. I'm sick of all formalities."

"I don't find calling each other by first names necessary in our situation," Arthur said, turning his back to the Frenchman and looking at the photographs again. He took one in his hand and blew at it, probably to get dust off it. Francis sighed dramatically. "Whatever you say," he said. "So, Arthur, do you live alone here?"

"Yes I do, _Mr_. _Bonnefoy_."

Francis ignored the significant way the Englishman had emphasized the formal addressing. He had meant what he had said earlier; he was fed up with all people hiding themselves behind useless politeness and formalities. How were people supposed to get to know each other if they always had a barrier of annoying superficiality and distant formalities between themselves and other people? When Francis was communicating with others, he didn't want to be talking with a doll, but with a real person with unique personality and courage to show it.

Maybe that was the reason why he had found himself approaching this Englishman again -the minor reason, that was. Arthur was distant and formal, yes, but he didn't hide his personality like the majority. Even if he was _English_.

"You don't have any butler or maid to take care of your house?" Was it only Francis' imagination or had Arthur shuddered slightly? However, the whistle of teapot prevented the Englishman from answering the question and he hurried to the kitchen. Soon he came back to the living-room with two teacups, and offered one of them to Francis. Slightly wincing, the Frenchman took the cup. "_Merci_."

"What comes to maids..." Arthur sat down on a chair opposite to Francis and smelled his tea, then placed the cup on the small wooden table between the two men. "One lady comes to clean here once a week," he told. "A Russian girl."

"Oh," Francis said, taking a tiny sip of his own tea and trying his best not to smell any of it.

The doorbell rang. "That should be Gilbert." Arthur stood up and walked to the door. Francis quickly put his cup on the table.

"Heya, Artie!" Francis heard from the hall. "The awesome me is here! Did you need me for something? Well of course, you always need!"

"...I'm surprised you came on time," was Arthur's dry answer. "Come, to the living-room."

Francis smiled sweetly as his friend and Arthur's cousin paced into the room typically proudly. Gilbert then stopped suddenly, as if he had met the wall, as soon as he saw the Frenchman. "Fran-" The Prussian stared in awe for a second, then, apparently and very correctly sensing troubles, quickly turned on his heels and headed back to the hall. "I have to go. I'm busy."

Arthur stopped him and dragged back into the living-room. "You are not," he said, leaving his cousin beside the table and sitting on his previous place again, lifting his teacup to his lips.

The Prussian turned to his friend. "What are you doing here, Francis?" he asked judgementally, as if Francis' presence only was an offence towards his persona. "According to the scolding I got from Arthur after your party, you two being together can mean only trouble."

"Exactly," Arthur said scornfully as Francis burst into laughter. "The trouble has already happened, and you are the one to be blamed for that. So you'll help us."

The crimson eyes moved from Arthur to Francis. "What the hell? It's not like you can become pregnant, right?" Arthur's jaw dropped, and Francis had to wipe away tears of laughter from his eyes. "Let...let me explain," he said, still laughing and receiving a priceless expression from the Englishman. "You see, _mon_ _ami_, I arrived to London yesterday, and who did I bump into if not this Arthur here. He was wandering in rain in miserable condition, and-"

"I would like you to explain properly, Mr, Bonnefoy!"

"And I kindly offered to take him in my carriage wherever he wanted." Francis saw the Englishman rolling his eyes and smirked. "But being the grumpy Englishman he is, he started insulting me and my city, so-"

"Don't make me sound like-"

Francis sighed dramatically. "_Please_, Arthur, try to be a gentleman and stop interrupting me." Content, he saw how the Englishman was doing his best to keep himself from losing his temper.

"Yeah, whatever, I don't care what happened!" Gilbert interfered, slumping into a sofa. "Just tell me why you need me here."

"I was _just_ coming to that part, Gilbert," the Frenchman said patiently, as if he was speaking to a child. "Before I was cut off." He threw a significant look at Arthur.

"The point is," the Englishman started to speak. "that we went to a restaurant-"

"Where we were served some kind of excuse of food."

"And our conversation led us to talk about our cities. And since Mr. Bonnefoy seemed to be a real vulgar what comes to London, and kept blabbering about his Paris, we decided to make a small game."

"A game?" Gilbert crossed his arms, threw his head back and gave a loud 'ha'. "I knew you two only bring problems."

"Indeed," Francis said. "And you'll be the judge."

The Prussian laughed cheerily. "No way in hell."

"Oh yes, Gilbert. It's your fault we are in this situation anyway, so take your responsibility." Arthur's voice was stern.

"What do you mean, my fault?"

"Who introduced Arthur to me, Gilbert? You did." Though Francis didn't mind that; he had been bored and in a need of just something challenging like this. Trying not to wince, he took his teacup again, held his breath and emptied the cup as quickly as possible. Luckily the reddish liquid wasn't hot anymore.

Looking at his cousin and his friend, the Prussian apparently realized that the least painful way to survive the whole thing was to cooperate. "Fine then, I should have known you two just can't make it without me. So, what's the point of this little game of yours?"

"To convince the other in superiority of one's own city. Which of course means London," Arthur stated.

Francis smiled slyly. _The point of this game_, he thought, _is the same it was back at the masquerade in Paris: to get Arthur on his knees_. Oh no, Francis hadn't forgotten his defeat to the Englishman at his party, and he had travelled to London for one reason only: to finish off what had started in Paris. And this time Francis intended to be the victorious one. He would make Arthur want him. He would make him _beg_. The Frenchman tried to hold back his smile as pictures of his victory ran through his mind. This game of their cities was just a cover; the _real_ game was hidden beneath it. That delicious-looking Englishman would be at his mercy... Of course, no one else needed to know that.

"And the rules are?"

"We already agreed on them," Arthur said. "We'll take turns in introducing our cities to each other. First, Mr. Bonnefoy will stay here for one week, and I'll take him around the city to the most gorgeous sights, the most delicious restaurants and the best parties. Anything like that, that will show him what London has to offer. Anything. After one week it is my turn to go to Paris, and Mr. Bonnefoy shall show his city to me. Then, we shall have a break of one week, after which we'll have one more round in both cities. The city that has more to offer will win."

"Naturally, the quality beats the number," Francis added. "We'll write short critique after each week we spend in the other's city, and your job is to read them and make your decision of the winner. Naturally, we will be honest."

"Of course, neither me nor Mr. Bonnefoy can arrange or have any business with the activity we will attend," Arthur said. "That wouldn't be fair."

"Sounds simple," Gilbert nodded. "So, the main question now is, why Arthur addresses you by 'mister' but you call him by his name, Francis?"

"Because he is a stubborn idiot," Francis scoffed.

"Because he is a brainless frog," Arthur explained.

"I see," the Prussian laughed. "Francis is my buddy, Artie, you can call him by his first name."

"Well he isn't _my_ friend, so he shouldn't even be calling me by _my_ first name," the Englishman responded sharply. Francis rolled his eyes. _Englishmen_, he mouthed to Gilbert, who grinned.

"So, when does this game of yours start?"

"How about tomorrow?" Francis suggested. Arthur rose his eyes from his now empty teacup. "Tomorrow? But it's Sunday tomorrow."

Francis let out a long and knowing 'oh', and continued pityingly. "Does it mean London is dead on Sundays? Not a good start for your game, _mon_ _cher_."

Arthur was looking at his cup again. "No," he snapped. "I just have some business to do tomorrow morning."

"Come on, Artie, you won't spend the whole day at the graveyard, will you?" Gilbert uttered. "I'm the judge and I say you start tomorrow!"

"Graveyard?" Francis arched his eyebrow questioningly and Arthur shot a murderous glare at the Prussian. "My condolences."

"It's nothing, it happened very long time ago," the Englishman said to his teacup, then looked back at Francis with his forest-green eyes. "We start tomorrow, then. If Gilbert says so." He smiled arrogantly, like he had done at the masquerade a couple of weeks ago. "My city will seduce you."

Francis gave a laughter of disbelief. "Your city? Please. _I _will seduce _London_."

It was Arthur's turn to laugh. "Ha! You couldn't seduce even that waitress from yesterday's restaurant."

That scornful _thing_ was seriously questioning his, _his_, seducing skills! The Frenchman laughed, this time longer than before. "You are a funny man, Arthur." He set his eyes on the Englishman and smirked. "Did you just really say that? _You_? Don't make me laugh."

Arthur's eyes flashed. "I take it you want to add something to our game?"

Francis leaned forward. "_Oui, mon cher. _Shall we add a small seducing competition?"

"Deal."

For the first time, Gilbert felt a little anxious for what he might have done by causing the Englishman and the Frenchman meet each other.

xXx

"Well, this should be it," Francis said, content. The paper with rules of their game was laying in front of him on the wooden table.

"Gilbert, read the rules for us so that we'll see if there is something that needs to be corrected," Arthur asked the Prussian, who, rolling his eyes, obeyed.

"Seducing game..." he muttered, then started reading aloud. "When seducing people, the object of seduction must be the one who asks something more than just chatting. If the seducer himself suggests anything, the result won't count."

Both Francis and Arthur nodded, and Gilbert continued. "Sex doesn't count; many people want that for their own motives only. Therefore the seducer has to get both name and address, written down, of the object of seducing as a proof of succeeding. The seducer is not allowed to ask for required evidence (as in the rule number one). Clear?"

"Yes, yes, move on."

"Competitors are not allowed to interfere with each others' personal lives, and possible misfortunes of the opponent are forbade to be used against him. Also, the personal problems of competitors won't give them any break or extra in the game."

"_Oui_."

"Gentlemanly and honesty are obligatory; it's forbidden to disturb the opponent in any way. The winner will be the one, who has more addresses and whose city has better commentary. The winner will be chosen by Gilbert, the awesome neutral judge. And: breaking rules will mean losing the game, with no exceptions." Gilbert finished and gave other two men a dramatic look. "Am I understood?"

"For once," Francis nodded.

"Since it's not you who came up with the rules," Arthur muttered. "So, tomorrow it starts, then." He turned to Francis and smiled scornfully. "Good luck, Mr. Bonnefoy."

"Same to you, Arthur." Francis chuckled darkly. "You'll need it."

X

AN: Now that things got somewhat explained, the actual plot can finally start in the next chapter... Or something like that. =P


	4. Chapter 4

**The night of the hunter**

**Chapter four**

"Tell me, Lizzy," Arthur said quietly. "Why do I still feel guilty?"

Light breath of wind travelled among the gravestones, gently asking leaves of trees to dance in the silence of the graveyard. Wind wasn't strong, but it was cool, and it made the Sunday morning feel chilly despite the shining sun. Arthur put his into the pockets of his jacket, regretting leaving his gloves at home; it was only early autumn, but the coolness of the weather shouldn't be underestimated.

"After all this time... Why can't I just stop regretting your choice?"

The gravestone Arthur was standing in front of was simple; not engraved, and without any little statues that were keeping company to many other gravestones. Few white lilies were laying on the grave – the flowers Elizaveta had always loved so much.

"And why can't I stop blaming myself?"

As usually, no one answered. The Englishman sighed. "Well you are as talkative as usually, Lizzy," he said. "Not quite when you used to be blabbering all the bloody time. Funny, how back then I wished you to shut your mouth for a little moment, but now I'd like to hear you speaking again." Arthur knelt down to clean the dead leaves away from Elizaveta's grave. The leaves were bright yellow and red, with hints of green left on them, and unconsciously the Englishman started to collect a bouquet of them. "You know, the girl who comes to clean my house doesn't talk a word. She just comes and does her job, and then leaves. She is quite creepy, actually. You should see how she polishes all the knives I have." He placed the bouquet of leaves beside the lilies and looked around, seeing only a a couple of old ladies further away from him. "You make me look very stupid, Lizzy, did you know that? To think that I'm talking to myself like this..."

Arthur straightened up and fixed his collar. "Well, I'm going now," he said. "I have a game to play."

xXx

"So, were are you taking me today, _mon Anglais_?"

Arthur had picked the Frenchman up from the hotel he was staying at and now the two men were sitting in a carriage. This ride was for sure much more comfortable than the previous one with Francis, now that Arthur wasn't dripping water and shaking of cold, now that he felt much more confident about his appearance.

"First, we are going to theatre," he answered the Frenchman, throwing at him a purposely arrogant glance with a small smirk. Yes, Arthur had noticed how much that particular expression annoyed his opponent, and therefore made sure to shake his inner calmness every now and then. It was rather entertaining to see those blue eyes light up with dark electricity of irritation. "No one can visit London without seeing at least one play of Shakespeare performed properly. While we are driving there, please enjoy the beauty of London, Mr. Bonnefoy." Arthur rested his elbow on the frame of the window, leaning his chin on his now gloved fingers and looking at Francis slightly half-facing. With his pose and arrogant expression, the Englishman knew from his earlier experience he looked good – and not only good but very attractive in a daring way. The way people like Francis just couldn't resist.

"I would if I could see any," the Frenchman replied dryly. He looked straight and openly at Arthur, blue eyes examining the Englishman as if eyeing a prey. Arthur sneered at his comment, casually gazing out of the window but inwardly reminding himself to be careful. Francis was a dangerous opponent. Arthur knew that the Frenchman was a natural seducer, it was easy to see; the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way he laid his eyes on someone. His whole appearance announced him to be a man who was used to people fainting around him, and Arthur hated that, not only because it would be hard to win the French bastard. He hated that sureness of victory that was radiating from the Frenchman. He couldn't _stand_ it. It would be good for that frog to experience crawling in front of somebody sometimes... Arthur smiled slightly as he gazed at London of the window. Why not? Arthur could add something small to his game. A new desire grew in his mind: breaking that self-conscious, smug French bastard. That shouldn't even be too difficult, since the Englishman remembered perfectly well how Francis had so obviously wanted him back at the masquerade.

Arthur glanced at Francis. The Frenchman was looking out of the window too, now thoughtful expression on his elegant face. Sure, he was attractive, and unfortunately aware of that, but it had been Arthur who had won the first match. _Very well,_ the Englishman thought. _Let's see how long that bloody _French Casanova_ can last._

xXx

It appeared that Francis didn't lose any time with starting his game, much to Arthur's displease.

It looked like half of the Londoners had decided to go and see _Othello_ that particular evening, to that particular theatre. As the Englishman was leading the Frenchman to their seats, a young lady walking near to Arthur managed to slightly hit him. She turned around and opened her mouth to apologise, but then her eyes slipped from Arthur to Francis. The Englishman could see her eyes widening and mouth staying opened , and he would have found her obvious shock amusing, if the person she was affected by hadn't been the Frenchman.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she finally managed to say, but for some reason to _Francis_, who hadn't even noticed her yet.

"It's o-" Arthur began, but was cut off as the Frenchman heard the lady's voice.

"Oh, who is this fascinating lady?" he asked, putting up an innocent charming smile. The Englishman rolled his eyes.

The lady was just about to answer, but before she could say a word, a man near her turned around. "Grace! Don't leave behind." Then the man's dark eyes noticed Francis and Arthur, standing a little too close to the lady called Grace, and he furrowed his black eyebrows and took the lady's arm. "Who are you gentlemen, if I may ask?"

Judging of the man's looks and his protective behaviour over the lady, Arthur figured he was her father. Not wanting to deal with angry parents, he briefly explained what had happened and let the man go ahead with his daughter. The lady threw one last glance at Francis before hurrying after her father. Somewhat irritated, Arthur continued to their own seats, not caring to see whether the Frenchman was following him or not.

"She is done," he heard Francis' content voice from behind of him. "Did you see the way she looked at me? Now she can't stop thinking about me."

Arthur sat down on his seat and pointed the Frenchman the place on his right. Francis sat down, still smiling in an annoying smug way.

"Too bad you didn't get her address, Mr. Bonnefoy, and you know only her first name, which she didn't even reveal herself," the Englishman uttered coldly. "And it is unlikely that we'll meet her again in this crowd, so you'll hardly get a point of this."

"Someone sounds bitter~"

"I am not," Arthur replied matronly. The sound of a bell ringing cut the conversation between the two men, and both of them focused on what happened on the stage. At first.

Arthur had seen all Shakespeare's plays more than once, and slightly bothered by the game and what happened before, he started glancing around from the corners of his eyes. Eventually his eyes stopped on Francis.

The Frenchman didn't notice him looking, blue eyes focused on the stage. The ironic smile that had been on the Frenchman's lips when he had heard the program that Arthur had planned, was now replaced with a small smile of interest. Francis seemed to be completely drawn into the play (Arthur made a mental note to remind him of that later), and the Englishman caught himself of thinking of how nice Francis' face actually looked when that annoying smirk was gone. And how his long hair highlighted his elegant neck when tied back. And... _Enough_.

Arthur yanked his eyes back to the stage, stopping himself from thinking any further. Sure, the Frenchman was very handsome (he couldn't believe he had thought of that three times during that evening already), but that was all there was to it; his intolerable personality being enough to push any self-respective person away. Besides, Francis was his opponent and also soon his victim of invisible seduction; Arthur should be careful to not lose his leading position to that _frog_.

The curtain was lowered and the half-time bell rang. Arthur stood up and looked down at the Frenchman. "Let's have something to drink," he suggested.

Not having made the table reservation beforehand, the two men couldn't find a new table for themselves and thus had to settle to standing places at a long table along the wall. Sipping his drink, Arthur was slightly leaning against the table, looking absently at other people around. He couldn't help feeling a little uneasy surrounded by people, who, as far as he could see, were having a good time with their company. But what could Arthur say to _his_ companion, whom he didn't practically know at all and who was his opponent? Hesitating a moment, he cleared his throat. "So..."

"Excuse me... Oh, but you are the gentleman from before!"

Arthur turned around to see the lady -Grace, if he wasn't mistaken- who had accidentally hit him earlier. The lady was very clearly looking only at Francis, and the Englishman tightened his lips together, noting the singular addressing, as if the bloody Frenchman was standing alone.

Francis reacted quickly. "My eyes must have be betraying me! _Mademoiselle_ Grace, am I right?"

She giggled. Arthur rolled his eyes. _Please_.

"I must apologise, _mademoiselle, _I haven't introduced myself yet." The Frenchman was obviously in his element; all charming smiles, smooth movements and playing with his tone and sappy words. "My name is Francis Bonnefoy."

"Oh!" the lady exclaimed. "I knew you were French, Mr. Bonnefoy! I said to my father: 'That man must be French.' I have always _loved_ everything French." She made an excited motion with her hands – and her fine, silky scarf fell from her shoulders and fell on the floor. "Oh, how clumsy of me," she said, looking ready to pick up her scarf, but in reality she was waiting to...

"No, please let me do it," Francis said quickly, taking the cloth from the floor and offering it to the lady. She was obviously flattered, even though she had to know what would happen if she dropped something. "Thank you..." She looked at Francis from under her eyelashes.

_Remember the rules, Arthur. You can't disturb his game in any way._

"It was an honour, _mademoiselle_."

But seriously.

"Do you like dancing, Mr. Bonnefoy?"

"But of course. Especially with beautiful ladies like you."

"I- There is a ball arranged at our house next month. Would... you perhaps like to participate?"

Arthur was almost shocked. _Seriously_, did a British lady bent so easily in front of a French prick?

"I'd love to, milady."

She was totally flushed by now. "Then... What if I give you the address of our house? How about you to come and... and get the invitation? Let's say tomorrow e-evening?"

Arthur turned around with an 'excuse me' and left the two, heading to his seat in the auditorium. He walked with quick steps, gritting his teeth together. He wasn't that upset with the point that Francis had indisputably got. No, more he was dissatisfied with that lady. Was it really possible that proud British women had sunk so low? It couldn't be. The whole idea was too appalling. And yet, there that bloody Frenchman was wrapping one of English women around his little finger with tasteless phrases.

It didn't take long for the bell to ring and the said Frenchman to join the Arthur again. _Unfortunately_, the Englishman thought. Francis had a disgusting smirk on his lips, and he waved a small piece of paper with the lady's address in a much too self-satisfied way. "I got her~"

Arthur turned to him with a very polite and very clearly faked smile. "Well congratulations."

"She fell so easily. If all Londoners are like her, this is going to be easy."

Anger filling him, the Englishman tried to remain calm. "I can't understand what she sees in you," he snorted.

"Hmm, who knows." The sapphire eyes turned to him. "Perhaps the same what you were watching during the first part of the play, Arthur," Francis suggested innocently. So _fucking_ _innocently_. Arthur felt his face heating up a little. And that was _a little_ too much. "I... was simply noting how much you seemed to enjoy the play, Mr. Bonnefoy."

The Frenchman's lips twitched slightly. "As a gentleman you only wish to be, I admit that it wasn't as bad as I had thought it would be."

"And I admit the lines you said that lady were absolutely ridiculous."

Francis gave a laughter. "She was the kind that loves those cheap romance novels full of those idiotic lines."

"It seems you've read those novels too, Mr. Bonnefoy," Arthur said dryly. "You must be proud of yourself now."

"Not at all." The Frenchman sighed. "That was very boring." He turned to look at Arthur again, the same kind of look in his eyes as a cat eyeing its prey has. "I prefer to have some... challenge."

A devilish smile crept on the Englishman's lips. "What a coincidence, Mr. Bonnefoy. Me too."

X

AN: Agh, it seems this is going into a cheesy direction, with deaths in the past and all. O_o Try to deal with it. Also, I'm very sorry for the delay, I am very busy with my studies at the moment so I won't be able to update as often as I'd like to. Forgive me and everything like that. :P I can't sacrifice my studies now. (Then maybe I can sacrifice my sleep..?)

Thanks for making it this far!


	5. Chapter 5

**The night of the hunter**

**Chapter five**

"He has been talking to my sister."

Gilbert's eyebrows rose in surprise. "To your sister? I didn't know he had so much guts."

The autumn sun shined into Gilbert's living room. The Prussian was sprawled on his sofa, legs propped on a small, wooden table, and looking at a tall man sitting on the opposite sofa. There was a characteristic, small smile on the man's lips, and the sunbeam made his almost violet eyes shine mysterious light, reminding Gilbert of two opals. Though, the Prussian thought, even opals were easier to read that the eyes of the man sitting opposite to him.

"Or then he is just obsessed. Or desperate," the man suggested calmly with his heavy Russian accent.

"Yeah, probably that," Gilbert gave a short laughter and then sighed. "He just can't let go of her... Well, what did Natalia do to him? As far as I know, he is still alive."

The Russian man chuckled. "Nothing. Only glared at him and said 'no'. According to her, he wasn't very persistent. Perhaps because she had her precious knives with her."

Gilbert laughed loudly, shaking his head. "Ivan, your sister is so creepy."

There was a short silence, during which the Russian's eyes got a new, interesting shade of dark violet and the Prussian emptied his jar of beer that was on the table.

"Gilbert."

"Hm?"

"Please repeat what you just said." Ivan's voice was as calm and kind as usual, but there was a hint of _that certain tone_ that, when heard and recognized, made most sane people fear for their safety.

Gilbert grinned. "I said that _your sister is so creepy_."

Ivan tilted his head. "_Da_, that's just what she is," he laughed, but soon a sudden shudder cut his laughter. "She doesn't know where you live, right?"

The crimson eyes of the Prussian sparkled playfully, _not even one bit_ anxiously. "No, unless she has been following you."

"Ah, of course." Violet eyes met the crimson ones. "...I think I could have my shot of vodka now," the Russian decided.

"I'll join you for that."

"By the way, I heard you were dragged into some kind of game."

"Not exactly," Gilbert said while pouring some vodka into two glasses, forgetting about the beer he had just drank. "The game is between Arthur and Francis, that's why they have been fooling around London these few past days. They just needed someone awesome to be the judge, so naturally they asked if I could do that little favour for them."

"I see." Ivan took one of the glasses when the Prussian offered them. "It reminds me, have you got an invitation to the ball? The one arranged tomorrow?"

"Ha! Of course!"

"It's not as obvious as you seem to be thinking," the Russian marked, only to be ignored. "Anyway, I'll pick you up at half past six."

"You'd better be on time then," Gilbert warned. "I won't be waiting. If you are late, I'll go with someone else."

Ivan smiled. "You wouldn't. Though, it_ would_ be rather entertaining, you having a reputation of a man whose partners always mysteriously disappear," he added after small thinking.

"I doubt that," the Prussian said, shrugging. "I've always found you a lazy man."

xXx

"Do you know well the person arranging this ball, Arthur?"

The Englishman shrugged. "He is a friend of one of my associates. I've met him perhaps twice, he's a kind, middle aged man. Probably I got the invitation only because my associate suggested him."

The two men were walking on the darkening streets of London, making their way to the mentioned ball. The wind was chilly, and the ball wasn't too close to Arthur's home, from where the two men had left, but the Englishman had decided they would walk anyway. London was beautiful at night, and it was the bloody time for the French idiot to realize that! All those dark, mysterious parks, illuminated streets and different buildings with gorgeous architecture.

"Oh. Speaking of which, is your business not effected by our game?" Francis asked.

"Not really," Arthur said, forgetting to scowl. "But to avoid problems, I sent them a letter in which I explained I won't be available for some time."

"I see," Francis chuckled. "Too bad. And here I thought your work would restrict your capacity to play the game properly."

Arthur grinned. "You wish."

During few previous days the two men had spent together, both of them had realized how dull it actually was to be angry at the other one all the time. Though, it was also difficult not to be, especially when Francis had his irritating habit of getting almost every bloody person fascinated without any visible efforts. But despite that, and the Frenchman's annoying arrogance, Arthur had decided to try to tolerate him a little more; after all, he was to spend a month with the Frenchman. Besides, strangling the opponent wasn't exactly allowed in the rules of their game.

"Speaking of the game," Arthur gestured around the streets they were walking, pointing at a beautiful Gothic church and a park and graveyard behind it. "How do you find the night of London? Mr. Bonnefoy." That was another thing Arthur was fed up with: calling Francis by 'mister'. It grew harder and harder to address him politely, particularly when that philistine always called him by his first name, or even worse, by some inappropriate and ridiculous French names. And yet, the Englishman was too much of a gentleman to skip the formalities to more suitable names to address the bloody frog.

"Frankly speaking, it's nice." Francis winked at him, smirking. "But you know... It lacks something essential."

"And that would be?" Arthur rose his eyebrow, unimpressed.

The Frenchman snaked his arm around his shoulder, stopping him and turning to see the growing moon. "Romance_, mon cher Anglais. _Romance."

Arthur shrugged the arm away and continued walking, not even bothering anymore to complain about the ways Francis called him. It was useless; that frog would call him in his own ways anyway.

"Again, you are either being stubborn or just senseless for the feeling of this city," he snorted.

"Me, senseless?" Francis laughed, catching up with the Englishman. "Ah, you are the one being stubborn, Arthur. But, you'll see the difference once we finally get to Paris tomorrow."

"We'll see about that," the Englishman argued. He gestured at the church again. It was dark inside, but street lights were casting their light on it, creating a mysterious, darkly romantic feeling. The graveyard with rustling trees behind it only increased it. "Look at that! You won't find it in Paris. Don't you feel the spirit of this church?"

"And the graveyard."

The sudden change in Francis' tone from playful to solemn, added to his words, froze Arthur for a moment. He threw a quick glance at the Frenchman, hearing the implied question in those three little words.

"And the graveyard," he said slowly, cautiously.

Francis gazed at the graveyard, then looked at Arthur, who had unintentionally stopped.

"So many dear people to lose we have," Francis said quietly, eyes on the Englishman. _Whose grave __did you visit on Sunday?_

Arthur avoided the blue eyes. It was only natural the Frenchman wanted to know whose grave Arthur had visited, but apparently he didn't dare ask straight. Which was very smart of him, since the Englishman wouldn't hesitate to consider it as prying into his personal life, which was forbidden by rules. "Mh," he mumbled to Francis' comment, hoping he would drop the matter. It was none of the Frenchman's bloody business, he didn't have to know about Elizaveta.

"_Arthur! Look, there's a little bunny!" The cheery voice made a little boy turn around and meet the smiling face of his nursemaid. Elizaveta was always smiling and kind to him, even when he had done something wrong and was scolded by her. Despite the few years' difference between their ages, the Hungarian nursemaid was almost like a friend to the English boy. Or a big sister. Of all the people living in the huge mansion of the English boy's family, Elizaveta was the one who gave him the most love he needed._

_He saw the bunny hopping in grass and his heart melted._

"That's life," he added to his mumble to make Francis turn his eyes away from him.

The Frenchman sighed, still looking at Arthur. _That curious bastard..._ "True... It's funny, when someone dies, the grief can stay for what feels like eternity." How long time ago_ did that person die?_

"_Arthur, do you have anybody you like more than others? Someone really special?" Elizaveta asked him once. "No!" the twelve-year-old boy snorted. "Like I would sink that low." His nursemaid laughed brightly. "Don't sound so terrified! It's nothing to be ashamed of. I have someone ,too."_

"_I don't need anyone like that," the English boy said haughtily._

_Only after two days, when Elizaveta was already gone, had he realized that he did._

"I guess so," Arthur muttered, trying to come up with something that would shut up the bloody frog. "Come already, we'll be late soon if we just stop like this."

But that fucking idiot just didn't give up. "_Oui_... But in this world, death comes so suddenly. Anything can happen." _How did it happen?_

_Fire could reach everywhere. Flames tried to catch and burn everything they could. The English boy had woken up to suffocating smoke and was shocked to see everything burning. He had to escape! Where was the door of his room? He couldn't see it, but he knew where it was, so he could make it, he just had to stay calm, no panic, no panic... He crawled towards where he knew the door was, remembering the instructions to stay low in the case of fire. He made it to the door of his room and opened it, only to get more smoke on his face. He couldn't see anything, and even worse, he couldn't breath properly, no matter how low he tried to stay. Fear crept into his mind, blinding him perhaps even more effectively that the smoke did. Coughing, he tried to crawl somewhere, somewhere, just out._

"_Arthur! Arthur! Where are you? Arthur!" That voice! The boy almost cried of relief. It was Elizaveta! She could save both of them. She could make everything better, like she had always done._

"_Lizzy," he cried out. "Lizzy, I'm here!"_

_The familiar figure of the young woman appeared from the smoke. "Arthur, this way!" She took his hand, dragging him towards the stairway down. "Almost everyone else is safe, including your family. They are waiting for you outside."_

_The boy opened his mouth to speak, but had to cough instead. "Thank you," he finally managed. "For coming for me."_

"_Don't even mention it!" the Hungarian exclaimed, squeezing his hand with her own, bringing the other to her throat. "How could I just leave you here?"_

_They ran the stairs down. The smoke decreased slightly, and the English boy felt his fear loosen up a little._

"_Hurry, Arthur, we are almost there!"_

_Almost. That was as far as Elizaveta could make it. There was a crash and wooden bars supporting the ceiling collapsed at her, getting her trapped. The English boy let out a chocked cry and tried to push the already burning bars off her, bearing no fruit._

"_Arthur, dammit, run!" The boy cried and shook his head furiously. How could he leave her, the closest person to him ever? "Don't worry about me, I'm strong," she continued, her face twitching of pain despite the efforts to maintain calm for the boy. When he still didn't obey her, the Hungarian relied on her ace that had never betrayed her before: her most authoritative tone. "Arthur. Now." And then she coughed, spitting blood on the stained floor. "Arthur!" She gave him one last smile. "Show me you can do it!"_

_And the boy ran. Crying, he managed to get out of the mansion, into his mother's arms. No one made an effort to help Elizaveta, no matter how the English boy pleaded. Everyone just said it was too dangerous, that she was beyond any help. No one dared to brave the flames, and when the fire died away, it was already too late._

Arthur swallowed, quickening his steps, as if he could just leave the painful memories behind. But Francis followed him, not letting the memories disappear. "Accidents sure are tragic."

Accidents.

"_Arthur, have you put out all the candles?"_

"_Yes! You can trust me, Lizzy, I'm not that small and careless anymore..."_

Arthur lost it. He stopped suddenly and furiously turned to look into those cursed blue eyes with his burning green ones. "_Goddammit_, Francis, just drop it already! We are not going to bloody _funeral_!"

There was silence. Breathing heavily, hands forming fists, Arthur kept staring at the Frenchman, whose amazed expression slowly melted into a softer one. An unreadable smile crept on his lips. "Finally you got over that 'mister'."

Arthur was first taken aback of his words, until he realized what he had said. He opened his mouth, but shut it again in loss of words. Whether or not it was because of his current shaken state of mind, he couldn't come up with anything smart to say, and just turned around to continue walking. "Are you coming or not?" he asked over his shoulder. "And, _if you please, _leave your little thoughts about death and remember it is a _ball_ we are heading to. Gloomy frog."

Arthur could hear Francis laughing behind him. "Oui, obviously you did get over useless politeness." The Frenchman caught up with him again, smiling cheerily. "Why, let's hurry then."

For some reason, Arthur smiled.

xXx

"Mr. Kirkland, long time no seen!"

Arthur turned around, folding a piece of paper with the address he just got into his clothes, and saw a man, well over his forties, approaching him. _Now who the hell is that, _he thought, smiling politely and grabbing the offered hand. "Indeed, we haven't met for a while. When was the last time again?"

"If I recall correctly, it was two months ago, at Mr. Edelstein's concert." The man gave him a wink. "I'm sure my daughter remembers more precisely."

Oh, fuck it. "No need for exact dates," Arthur assured quickly, trying to hide his horror. Now he remembered; not the man or his name, but his daughter. The poor lady had fallen in love with him, head over heels. She had practically clung to him for the whole concert, staring at him with her adoring eyes, following him everywhere.

"True, true," the man almost sang. "Well, still a bachelor, Mr. Kirkland?"

Arthur felt his heart skip a beat and face redden. "W-well, I'm going day by day..." He blinked, and much to his horror, he saw the daughter of the man starting to make her way in his direction. And he still couldn't recall any names. Quickly he glanced around in vain hope to see some help and spotted Francis on the other side of the room, in the middle of a conversation with several women. Of course. Arthur swore silently. He was between a rock and a hard place; either he had to stay and meet the lovesick girl and her father, or deal with the smug Frenchman. _This merciless world..._

"Oh, there he is!" the Englishman exclaimed, gesturing towards Francis. "I've been looking for him the whole evening... Finally!" He nodded to the nameless man. "If you excuse me."

Arthur could almost feel a disappointed look on his back while walking to the Frenchman.

"Mr. Bonnefoy," he greeted him with a fake cheerful smile, interrupting the conversation and grabbing the Frenchman's hand to shake it. "Finally I found you!" A small glance at the man he had left with his daughter told him he was still being looked at. Couldn't he just understand that he had no interest in his daughter?

Francis was taken aback by Arthur's action, but being the suave man he was, he recovered quickly. "Ah, my ladies, this is Arthur, my partner here tonight." Before the Englishman could protest, the Frenchman's arm snaked around his shoulders. "Now if you don't mind, I should spend some time with him now."

"That's totally fine, Mr. Bonnefoy," an older lady said. "And remember, if your plans happen to change, you know where to find our home."

"Perfectly well,_ mon cherie_." Smoothly, the Frenchman bowed deeper than he would have had to and guided the Englishman away. "Perfect timing, Arthur," he said when they were far enough, taking his arm off his shoulder.

"Oh, had some problems with them?"

"_Non_, I got what I wanted." Francis tapped Arthur back. "And you, don't even think of going back to that 'Mr. Bonnefoy'."

Arthur grimaced. "Whatever. It's not not like you deserved polite addressing."

Francis chuckled. "I truly wonder how you have managed to get a reputation of a gentleman through and through."

The Englishman scoffed. "Being a gentleman and being kind to a frog are two completely separate things."

"I do prefer this not-pretending side of yours," the Frenchman nodded, amused for whatever reason. "But the polite one had its perks."

"I'm simply being honest."

"Of course, _mon ami_. Now, would you like to have something to drink?"

"Francis! Arthur!"

Arthur rolled his eyes at the voice calling their names and Francis sighed dramatically. "It seems that Gilbert has found his way here, too." The Englishman turned to look and visibly tensed. "And not alone..."

Francis rose his eyebrow at the Englishman's reaction and followed his look at the three approaching figures; Gilbert, Ivan and Roderich. "You know those two?"

"Well, I..." But Arthur didn't have time to finish before the trio joined them. "Good evening, Mr. Edelstein, Mr. Braginsky. And Gilbert."

"Hey, what's with that 'and Gilbert'?"

"Francis, these are Roderich Edelstein, my associate and also Gilbert's...uncle? And Ivan Braginsky, the... Uh..." The Englishman trailed off, not knowing how to introduce the Russian. _The brother of the girl who cleans my apartment?_ No. _Gilbert's...who?_ Arthur had no idea what was going on between the Russian and the Prussian. Actually he didn't know anything about the Russian, except that everyone, including him but save Gilbert, seemed to take him with a grain. And that wasn't the best way to introduce someone. Ivan's violet eyes laid on Arthur and he shivered slightly, feeling himself so small compared to the tall Russian. "A-and, this is Francis Bonnefoy," he quickly finished. The Frenchman gave him an amused grin, which Arthur answered with a murderous glare.

"Pleasure to meet you," Roderich said coolly to Francis, then looked at Arthur. "About the company, Mr. Kirkland, may I get an explanation?"

"I believe we'll excuse ourselves," Ivan said, nodding at Gilbert, who was frowning at Roderich. "It was nice to meet you, Mr. Bonnefoy."

Francis replied him something as he dragged the Prussian away with him, and then turned back to Arthur and the Austrian. He had a questionable expression, but the Englishman ignored it. "Explanation?" he repeated Roderich's words..

"Yes, an explanation." The Austrian looked coldly at the Englishman. "You have missed one regular and one extra meeting this week, without a word. I, with the rest of our associates, find such behaviour unacceptable."

Arthur frowned, apprehension sneaking into his mind. "What do you mean, without a word?" he asked. "I sent a letter in which I explained everything."

"We have received no letters."

The Englishman felt his insides turning cold. He remembered very well the rules the five associates had agreed on when they had found their company, and those rules had no soft spots for those who neglected their duty. "I..."

"However, since this behaviour is not a habit of yours, we decided to give you a chance," the Austrian spoke. His voice was as emotionless as always, and it made the Englishman hope he would show a little more of his thoughts. Roderich made everything sound like Arthur was going to be sued and put to death. "You can explain yourself tomorrow at 11.00 am."

Arthur more felt than saw Francis' eyes on him. He swallowed. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes."

The Englishman closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. "Mr. Edelstein, tomorrow I'm going to France at nine o'clock in the morning, I can't-"

"That is too bad, Mr. Kirkland."

Arthur couldn't believe his ears. That Austrian couldn't be serious! Arthur had conscientiously done his job and been loyal to his company since it had been found two years ago, for Queen's sake! "I have sent the letter, Mr. Edelstein, and it's not my fault it didn't make it. I have extremely pressing business on now and I need to go to France tomorrow."

The Austrian's glasses flashed. "Your trip is really that important?"

_Yeah, I have to go and enjoy the best that Paris has to offer, as well as seduce as many people as I can along the way. _"Erm, yes. Very important." From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Francis quirk a smile and cursed the bloody frog, too. Without him he wouldn't be in this kind of situation in the first place.

"Well then, I'll see if we could arrange that," Roderich said with a small sigh. "Perhaps we could gather at eight in the morning."

"Thank you," Arthur said, angry because in his opinion it was the least his associates should do for him, nothing he should be _thanking_ for.

"Yes, Mr. Kirkland. You shall be informed about the situation tomorrow morning." Roderich bowed slightly. "Now, I'm afraid I have business elsewhere."

"Of course, Mr. Edelstein."

An unpleasant feeling in his stomach, Arthur formed a fist with his hand. _This is going so great!_ He had never given his co-workers any reason to be unsatisfied with him, and now, because of _one little_ misfortune, they were betraying him. And, to make things go from bad to worse, _Francis_ of all people had to be right there, witnessing his moment of indignity. Feeling humiliated, Arthur slowly looked at the Frenchman, who was still looking at Roderich's distancing back. "Now if you think this unfortunate twist will help your game, you are wrong," he said sternly.

Francis turned his eyes to the Englishman, who started to feel like escaping the whole damned ball and going home to whether read something or alternatively get himself drunk, or possibly both. The room the two men were in started to feel too small and too hot and cold at the same time. Arthur continued glaring at the Frenchman, who looked back, face impossible to read. Finally he opened his mouth, but the Englishman was quicker.

"Not a single word, frog," he hissed, turning away and starting to walk...somewhere. He needed to get out.

"We can as well leave later." Arthur stopped, blinking. Had he heard right? "The boat from England to France leaves every hour. We can as well leave later."

The Englishman turned halfway back to the Frenchman, not sure if he was just playing with him. "What...do you mean?"

Francis gave him a sly smirk. "I always mean what I say, _cher_."

Knowing Francis, Arthur doubted that. "And how would it benefit you, helping me?"

"Simply a gentlemanly act. Didn't the rules require that?" Francis walked over to him. "Is it so hard to believe?"

Arthur glared at him. "From you, yes." He crossed his arms over his chest. "The rules also said that one's personal life has no effect on the game."

The Frenchman shrugged. "It was simply a suggestion."

"Well, I'm not supporting your suggestion. I won't give you any reason to say in the end of the game that I could win only because of your 'gentlemanly acts'."

Francis chuckled. "Such a proud one, you are..."

"Shut up! I said, not a single word." Arthur felt frustrated, confused and even more humiliated of the Frenchman's sudden act of...what? Not simple kindness, that was for sure, but what benefits Francis could possibly get by helping him? None, as far as the Englishman could see, except a small moral comfort after Arthur's victory. Would that really matter to Francis? Arthur looked at the floor, feeling a sudden urge to get closer to the wall instead of standing in the middle of the room. But he found he couldn't move his feet, not before he had said something. Unwillingly looking up into blue eyes, he shifted from one leg to another. "Anyway, thank you. For the suggestion."

The smile that spread on Francis' face made Arthur think for a moment that it had been worth thanking the Frenchman, such a genuine smile it was, until he realized just what he was thinking and took a better control over his mind. _You must be really stressed, Arthur... Watch it._

"Nothing to thank for," Francis said and Arthur silently agreed with him. "But to think that you actually did so..."

The Englishman snorted. "Simply a gentlemanly act, you could say."

The Frenchman laughed, running his hand through his long hair and winking at Arthur, that bastard. "Well, we should move to the dancing hall, _non_?"

"Why not."

"Oh, what about something to drink? I wouldn't mind a glass of good wine now."

Arthur walked closer to the wall. "Finally a meaningful suggestion from you," he grinned. "Take me one, too."

Francis rose an eyebrow at him, the placed his hand on his chest and bowed in a butler-like style. "Whatever you wish for, _mon cher_."

Arthur rolled his eyes, assuring himself that his heart hadn't just beaten faster. Of course it hadn't, why would it? He followed Francis with his eyes, watching him making his way to a long table with drinks. The Frenchman seemed to examine different kind of wines, then picked two glasses with dark red liquid, turned around, eyes meeting the Englishman's, and, before Arthur had time to curse himself of being caught of staring, gave him a small, smug smile, took few steps towards him... And stopped to chat up a young man standing near him.

Arthur could feel his jaw practically dropping. That smug, slimy...bastard! He did _that_ on purpose! Arthur snapped his mouth shut, irritation flaming inside of him. Francis just _had_ to show off his skills to chat up people just like nothing.

Snorting, the Englishman let his eyes wander around the room. He wasn't waiting for Francis, just his glass of wine or whatever that wino had picked. Then, to his surprise, he spotted another familiar figure among other guests. The young man was standing near to a group of loud people, smiling politely and nodding once in a while. His dark, clean-cut hair was framing his delicate face, and Arthur immediately recognized his Japanese kind-of-a-friend. He left his comfortable and safe place at the wall walked over to the man.

"Mr. Honda!" he greeted, glad to see one of his rare _normal_ friends. "Good evening."

The Japanese noticed him and and his face seemed to light up. "Kirkland-_san_! Good evening!" he greeted Arthur, using the Japanese way for polite addressing, as far as Arthur had it understood.

Arthur had known Kiku Honda for few months now, ever since the Japanese had moved to England in order to learn how things were working outside his homeland. The Englishman had met Kiku when the latter had visited his company to study its system, and Arthur had found that he actually enjoyed the Japanese's company. Kiku was a quiet, calm man, who appeared serious but kind-hearted. Since too loud people annoyed both of them, they had slowly developed some kind of friendship together; not quite close to each other, but knowing they could trust the other one.

Besides, in situations such as balls, where one knew almost no one, it was relieving to know there was someone else in the same boat, too. This time, though, Arthur was was theoretically with Francis. Then again, _practically_ he wasn't _with_ the Frenchman. They had split up to play their game almost instantly after getting to the ball.

"I didn't know you were coming here," Arthur said to Kiku, who gave him a small yet warm smile. "Me neither. But I got invited after all." The Japanese looked unsure whether to be happy about it or not.

"You are with them?" The Englishman nodded towards the group Kiku had been with. The Japanese followed his gaze. "You could say that. They are from a company I visited, and they invited me with them."

"I see."

Kiku looked almost shyly in Arthur's eyes. "So... What about you? Are you here alone?"

Arthur ran his hand through his short hair, and automatically turned to look at Francis' direction. The Frenchman was still with the young man he had started talking to, but surprisingly his eyes were on the Englishman, the most haughty smile on his lips. Arthur turned his back to him again. "No," he said, not noticing on Kiku's face a brief expression of disappointment that was quickly replaced with his ever so polite one. "Unfortunately I'm with that Frenchman over there."

"Oh."

"I'm going to France with him tomorrow," Arthur continued, sighing. To get into trouble at his work for such a lame reason...

Smile on the Japanese's face tightened slightly, but not visible enough for the Englishman to see it. "Is that so. ...Have a nice trip then."

"That might be too much asked. But thank you."

"I... I believe he is waiting for you."

Arthur glanced at Francis again. Now the Frenchman was standing alone with two glasses of wine and half smirking at him. "So it seems," the Englishman snorted. "Well, I think I'll have to join his company again. Since I came here with him."

"Of course." Kiku's voice was emotionless.

"Besides, my wine is waiting." The Japanese smiled at him, and after goodbyes Arthur walked to Francis. The Frenchman offered him one of the glasses he was holding, and he took it.

"You seemed to get another point just now, _non_?"

Arthur took a sip of his wine. "No."

Francis rose his eyebrow, throwing a glance at the Japanese on the other side of the room. "No? To me you seemed to keep up a successful game with him."

Annoyed at Francis' almost teasing tone, the Englishman focused on his wine. "He is my _friend_. And unlike _some_ _others_ might do, I wouldn't play like that with my friends." _But you are not my friend, are you?_

A self-satisfied smile spread on the Frenchman's lips, for God knew what reason.. He put his hand on Arthur's shoulder to guide him to the dancing hall, but this time, perhaps because of Francis' distracting words, the Englishman forgot to shrug the hand off. "I do not know what you are implying, _mon_ _Anglais_," the Frenchman spoke. "And unlike you seem to like thinking, you are quite oblivious actually."

"What are you trying to say?" Arthur frowned at him.

Francis laughed. "_Oubliez ça._.. _Intéressant, en effet..._" he added thoughtfully.

"What the hell you are talking about?" The Englishman snapped, frustrated for not understanding the Frenchman's point, especially when he spoke in French.

"Forget it, Arthur, forget it."

They entered the dancing hall, melody of waltz filling the air. The dance floor was filled with dancing couples, while some people were watching them from the sides of the hall.

Francis finished his wine. "We should go and dance too, don't you think?"

Just when Arthur was about to snort that he wouldn't even think of dancing with a frog, the Frenchman continued. "Ah, that lady dressed in green over there looks like a good chance." Francis tapped the Englishman's shoulder. "Try to find yourself a parter, too, Arthur." And with that, he was gone.

_What the fuck is wrong with him? _Arthur felt like hitting the Frenchman. For sure he was bloody _playing_ with him on purpose! However, Arthur didn't let himself be a whistlebinkie. He randomly picked a girl to dance with, deciding to concentrate on his own game. _Both_ of them.

But.

In the end of the night, when the Englishman had seen Francis dancing with probably every bloody guest, he found himself thinking that the Frenchman should have asked him to dance, too. Even once. Francis was the guest, after all, or something like that, so asking Arthur dance would only be a respectful thing to do from his side...

Even once.

X

AN: A long chapter this time, to make it up for the long delay. Or, that's what I'd gladly say, but since the truth is that the delay was long _because_ of the length of the chapter, saying it kind of loses its point.

…

Sorry if this chapter is too long. But just in case you like long chapters, don't even think the next ones are going to be this long. This was merely an accident.

...

Also. Remember when I said I should perhaps sacrifice my sleep for this fic? Well, I did so. More than once. But it is worth it, I hope.

...

I wonder why I am blabbering like this. It must be because it's 1 am and I'm kind of tired. Sorry.

...

Cheers! :D


	6. Chapter 6

**The night of the hunter**

**Chapter six**

Francis enjoyed every bit of the strong, fresh sea breeze. He was leaning against the railing of the ship taking him and Arthur across the Channel, and gazing into horizon. As sunlight peeked from behind grey clouds, Francis couldn't help but smile widely; he was finally heading back to Paris, back to _his_ city, his home, and it seemed the closer to France the ship was getting, the more sun was revealed behind clouds. The morning was wonderful and the Frenchman was in high spirits.

Unlike the Englishman beside him. Francis glanced at him. Arthur was leaning his elbows on the railing and resting his chin on his hands, gazing absently at the sea, lost in his thoughts. There was a small frown on his forehead.

Well, that wouldn't do. No one should have that kind of face when the destination was Paris. Arthur should be smiling, or at least grinning slightly, and look forward to what was awaiting him. He should be in the mood of having fun and playing his game. Francis had to do something about that gloom of Arthur's. He was his guest, after all.

That's why he poked the Englishman's side. He hadn't expected him to jump and exclaim, but when Arthur did so, Francis had to grip the railing to prevent himself from collapsing of laughter.

For some reason, Arthur wasn't as amused. "Bloody hell, what the fuck do you think you are doing? _Stop laughing!_" he yelled at him. Francis wiped his eyes, still laughing, and looked at Arthur, who was standing like a mercenary in his rage, the wind playing with his clothes and hair, making the latter even messier than it already was. The sight was actually very nice, quite fascinating, to be honest, the Frenchman admitted to himself as he faced Arthur's green-eyed glare.

"I was just trying to get your attention, _mon ami_," he explained. "I didn't know you were so ticklish."

Arthur's frown deepened. "I am not. I was simply surprised," he scoffed, returning to his previous position at the railing.

"My mistake, then." Francis followed his example. "Anyway. Tell me, why are you looking so worried? Did your meeting not go well?"

"None of your business," Arthur automatically uttered, but, against his own words, continued talking. "No, it was fine... I suppose. Somehow. My associates _kindly forgave_ me _my mistake_ and agreed to my break."

The way the Englishman left the last word hanging in the air made Francis suspect that there was more to it. "But..?"

"But." The smaller blonde sighed, running his hand through his hair, attempting to keep it in presentable fashion. "They seem to be very angry with me. More mistakes won't be tolerated, you heard what Roderich said at the ball yesterday."

Francis recalled an image of sophisticated-looking Austrian. Roderich had annoyed him. The Frenchman wasn't quite sure why, but the Austrian had appeared too arrogant and too cool to him, and so stiff that Francis had disliked him instantly. He didn't know how Arthur managed to work with him, especially when he quite clearly disliked the Englishman. "Can you really maintain good teamwork with him?" the Frenchman asked. "Doesn't it affect your business?"

The Englishman frowned. "What does?"

Francis stared at him in disbelief, examining him with his eyes; it couldn't be that Arthur wasn't aware of Roderich's negative attitude towards him. Even Francis had marked after meeting the Austrian only once that the look in his eyes when he looked at the Englishman was anything but kind, and the way he had spoken to the Englishman certainly wasn't the way to speak to someone you like. Not mentioning other small signs in his body language, no matter how hidden they were tried to be kept. The Frenchman looked into Arthur's eyes and spoke slowly, like to a half-minded, pronouncing each word carefully. "You do know that Roderich dislikes you, don't you, Arthur?"

The Englishman's puzzled expression old Francis that he didn't.

"Dislikes me? Why would he dislike me?"

"That's something you'd know better than I."

Arthur stared at him blankly, then fixed his eyes on the sea again. "Stop messing with my business, frog," he said sullenly, and the Frenchman had to admit that his original intention to cheer up the Englishman had failed. Now Arthur was looking not only thoughtful, but sour, too.

As Arthur stared at the grey waters, Francis watched him. The Englishman could be so sharp and scornful at times, but then again, he seemed to be completely oblivious to other people's feelings. He hadn't noticed Roderich's hate, nor had he realized even the poorly hidden feelings the Japanese from the ball obviously had for him. Francis smiled to himself. Indeed, what an interesting man the Englishman was... If only was he less angry.

xXx

"Have you got any plans for today?" Arthur asked as they got off the train that had ran them from French coast to Paris. The trip from London had taken almost the whole day, and it was evening already when Francis and Arthur had arrived to Paris. Frankly speaking, the Frenchman felt somewhat tired of the trip, but each day was indispensable in the game and therefore not to be wasted on something as meaningless as resting. However, Francis hadn't planned anything special, only a simple introduction to Paris: dinner in a romantic restaurant. Romance was something that was conspicuously absent in London, and Francis was eager to show the Englishman the beating heart of the country of love. "_Mais oui, mon Anglais_," he answered. "You'll see."

Arthur's face was still annoyingly unimpressed. "I can't wait," he said sarcastically and lifted his suitcase from the ground, where he had put it after getting off the train. "So, which hotel would you recommend?"

"Hotel?" Francis looked at him as if his question was totally silly. "Why would you need a hotel? There is plenty room at my house." Really, not for one moment had Francis even considered letting Arthur stay in a hotel.

"At..." Arthur blurted and let out a small, disbelieving laughter. "Oh, no, you don't have to bother for me. Hotel will do perfectly well."

"Non, I insist." Francis draped his arm around the Englishman's shoulders. He remembered the last time when Arthur had been at his place, and that was the most enjoyable memory – even if it hadn't ended exactly how the Frenchman had planned; that night, the Englishman had left. On the other hand, if Arthur hadn't stoop up to him back then, they wouldn't be where they were now. Which would be a shame. Francis smiled at Arthur. "You shall return to the crime scene." _And this time, you'll stay over._

"What are you blabbering?" The other blonde tried to shrug the arm away but failed; Francis wasn't letting go yet. Visibly uncomfortable, the Englishman shot a glare at the Frenchman.

"I mean," Francis clarified him, "that we return to the place where you started this whole thing."

"_I _started? How come this is my fault?"

Francis smirked, getting the question he had wanted to hear. "It's your fault," he explained, "because if you hadn't played so stubborn and had just _given in_, we wouldn't have to be here now." Not that Francis minded the current situation, but that wasn't something Arthur should hear.

A dark shade of red crept up the Englishman's neck to his face. "Are you saying that if I had... agreed to be your... your one-night-stand back then, you would have had forgotten the whole thing the next day?"

"Oui, that's what I'm saying."

Arthur scoffed. "Well, there's one more reason not to be... tricked by you." He started firmly making his way towards exit, freeing himself from Francis' hold. "I have no intentions to be your one-night slut."

The Frenchman caught up with him, struggling to maintain his poker face. Playing with Arthur was just too much fun. "Ah, so one night is not enough?"

Arthur stopped as if he had hit the wall, dropping his luggage. "What. The. _Fuck is wrong with you?_"

Francis tilted his head innocently, meeting the angry eyes of the Englishman. "What's the problem, Arthur?"

"_You!_" the other man spat, looking like chocking on the word.

The Frenchman grinned. "Get used to it. I'm something you can't get rid of." He paused to emphasize his next words. "Which is your own choice." He winked suggestively at the Englishman, not quite sure why he kept going on with the matter. "Of course you can change that if you wish~"

Arthur carefully picked his suitcase again and slowly faced Francis. "Do you realize what you are implying?" he asked and grinned darkly, making the Frenchman arch his eyebrow. "By giving me only those two choices you either want me in your bed, _which won't happen,_ or have me stuck up with you. So, isn't it _you_ who wishes to stay with _me_?"

Aha, there was the sharp side of Arthur again. Francis gave an airy laughter. "What an interesting point of view you have. Either way, I only want my fun." He winked at Arthur, who scoffed. "Now, I believe we should go and have a wonderful dinner somewhere."

"Not dropping the luggage at a hotel first?"

"Not dropping the luggage at my house first," the Frenchman said calmly. "It would be waste of time."

He reached with his hand, firmly grabbing the suitcase from Arthur's hand, and started walking to the doors again, suddenly getting excited. As he pushed the doors of the railway station open, everything he had missed during his stay in England now welcomed him back; the atmosphere of the heart of France, people speaking _French _around him, lively streets that were illuminated with street lights, full of people enjoying their evening. Francis inhaled deeply, and couldn't help but smile warmly. This was his beautiful city. His home.

_Paris_.

Francis turned to see Arthur observing him by his side. "Welcome to Paris, _cheri._"

"Thanks," the Englishman mumbled in response. "I can carry my bag myself, you know."

"_Non_, I won't have that. You are my guest."

"Whatever." Slightly to the Frenchman's surprise, the Englishman didn't start arguing. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see soon," Francis said, putting one bag on the ground and waving them a carriage. "To a very good restaurant."

He wasn't lying; the restaurant indeed was excellent. The décor was elegant, simple yet cosy, and the dim lighting completed the romantic feeling. Francis chose a table that had a perfect view on Notre Dame of Paris, the building he was very proud of, as if he had built it with his own two hands. When the two men took their seats at the small, round table, a waiter came to light up a single candle on the table, as a finishing touch. Francis nodded to himself approvingly; it was good, everything was perfect. Finally he was at a restaurant that was actually going to serve _food_, not something that took two hours to be prepared but looked like waste.

The waiter returned, giving the two men the menus and retreating again, but not too far, in order to see when the guests were ready to order. Francis saw him giving a long look at Arthur and smiled slightly. Apparently the Englishman's rather thick eyebrows attracted some attention.

One of those eyebrows rose. "What are you smiling at?"

"Nothing," the Frenchman said innocently. "What would you like to order?"

Arthur frowned at him, but the menu in his hands. Francis didn't even bother to look at his menu, he knew already what he wanted. Instead, in lack of anything better to look at, (had_ he really just thought that in Paris?_) he fixed his eyes on the Englishman. Arthur was focused on the menu, staring at it intensely, eyebrows slightly furrowed. His hair was a mess, as always, Francis noted, but if you looked at his face more closely, the features of the Englishman were very nice actually. Not too round, but not too skinny, either. His whole form was like that; not skinny, not round, but slender and with just right amount of pride. Which was just the way the Frenchman preferred a human form. But what was best in Arthur, were definitely his eyes. Sometimes they were deep, dark forest green, sometimes piercing emerald. At any rate, they were absolutely capturing... If only Arthur wasn't frowning so much, it didn't suit him.

Francis blinked, returning back to the moment. Indeed, _why_ was Arthur frowning? He was staring at the menu, lips forming a tight line, looking somewhat tense. Why get so worked up, the Frenchman wondered vaguely. It couldn't be _that_ hard to choose what to eat...

Then the realization struck him. A wide smirk spread on his lips. But of course, the poor Englishman couldn't understand a word that was written on the menu; he didn't speak French. Well then, why not have some fun, as a first course?

Francis took his own menu. "Have you decided already, Arthur?" he asked casually.

The Englishman's pale cheeks reddened a little. "N-not yet..."

"Not yet? How much more will it take you, _cher_?" Francis nodded towards the further standing waiter. "_Monsieur_ waiter is getting inpatient. He is staring at you." As to prove his point, the Frenchman threw a glance at the waiter and saw a little surprised and slightly displeased that he really was looking at Arthur.

"W-well." Arthur cough, drawing Francis' attention back to him. "What would you recommend?"

"Ah, everything is incredibly delicious."

Francis smiled at Arthur, who hesitatingly looked him in the eyes, probably fighting between two equally bad options; whether to swallow his pride and ask for the Frenchman's help, or order just randomly something and make a fool of himself trying to pronounce the French names. Francis chuckled; the helpless little Englishman just looked so... cute. Unfortunately, as soon as Francis had laughed, Arthur's expression turned from hesitant into angry. He slammed the menu on the table and glared at the Frenchman with all his murderous power. "Git," he hissed through his gritted teeth.

Francis smirked.

"You..." Arthur fisted his hands, in loss of right words.

Francis smirked.

"...Fucking slimy frog..."

Francis smirked. "Is that a proper way to address your host, mmm? Perhaps I should call over the waiter, as it seems you are ready to order."

Arthur's face reddened, but Francis couldn't tell whether it was because of embarrassment or rage. Probably both, and the Frenchman couldn't do anything else but enjoy. The electric glare the Englishman was giving him was simply thrilling.

"All you need to do is ask," Francis said sweetly. "Kindly," he added.

"You fucking French bastard," Arthur hissed in response.

"That wasn't a good start, _cheri_."

The Englishman closed his eyes, obviously trying to calm down. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, focusing them on Francis. He didn't bother even try to hide the loath in his look. "Would you. _Please_. Help... Me with... This?" Each word was spat from his lips like they were poisoned.

This was Francis' win. He suddenly realized all the wonderful possibilities that Arthur's inability to speak French offered. Oh yes, like this, he could get him on his knees. "But of course, Arthur," he purred, smiling slyly. "May I order you something I myself find tasty?"

"Whatever. _If you please_."

Francis grinned and waved over the waiter. The man was instantly at their table and turned to Arthur, asking in French what he would like to order. The Englishman put up a polite smile and shot a glance at Francis, who ordered for both of them. The waiter wrote down the orders and poured the two men wine into fine glasses. Once he was gone, the Frenchman laughed. "That was very cute, Arthur."

"Fuck you."

"If you still wish to book into a hotel, please feel free to do so." With so good chance to tease the Englishman, Francis couldn't just let it go. "Though I believe that learning French is easier and much less humiliating than trying to find an English-speaking hotel in Paris."

"Shut up."

"If I do, will you take care of speaking?"

"You bastard," Arthur muttered, blushing. "I'll remember this.

Francis rested his chin on his hands, elbows propped on the table, and watched the Englishman over the fluttery flame of the candle. He smiled. "I can't believe there was a time when you were actually polite to me."

"Look who's talking," the green-eyed blonde scoffed. "Except that you have behaved inappropriately since the very beginning."

"Why, I'm simply being nice."

"No, you are simply mocking me," Arthur argued matter-of-factly. "To everyone else, you are being nice."

The Frenchman laughed, a light, pleasant laughter. "Oh, so there _is_ something even you can see," he teased. "_Oui_, with you I don't have to bother to pretend."

Arthur raised his eyebrow at him. "I'm not sure whether I should take that as a compliment or as an insult."

Francis' hand that was lifting his wineglass to his lips halted half-way. Now that the Englishman had said it aloud, the Frenchman, frankly speaking, wasn't sure of it, either. He placed the glass back on the table without drinking of it and tilted his head, watching Arthur. Well... He _had_ intended his comment as an insult, but now that he thought of it, he came to the conclusion that it wasn't. Because, what he had said was actually true; with Arthur, he didn't have to pretend. He didn't have to be all charming smiles and gestures and blarneys if he didn't feel like them, and he didn't have to beware with what he let out of his mouth; despite his 'gentlemanly' reputation, Arthur wasn't one for superficial politeness. The thought made Francis chuckle. How could someone be so rude and rough, and yet a perfect gentleman through and through? Or so sharp and yet oblivious to the most obvious things? Arthur's personality was full of fascinating, unlikely combinations. Which was very much to Francis' liking.

Arthur, visibly bothered under the Frenchman's gaze, shifted awkwardly on his seat. "What the fuck are you staring at?"

Francis flashed him a wide smile. "You."

"Well that much I could figure out by myself!"

"Then why are you asking?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and looked out of the window while Francis wondered vaguely how his secret game was progressing. Unlike other people, with Arthur the Frenchman couldn't tell. Perhaps it was because of the Englishman's complicated personality that Francis couldn't quite figure out. He knew that Arthur was warming up to him, at least somehow, otherwise he would still be sticking to that 'Mr. Bonnefoy'. But Francis hadn't known Arthur long enough to know whether his blushes were just a typical way of him to react to other people, or actually a sign of perhaps falling for the Frenchman. _Oh well,_ Francis shrugged absently. It wasn't like he didn't have time to find out...

He saw Arthur's eyes focusing on Notre Dame and smiled softly; apparently the Englishman had taken a liking in old churches. "We'll visit it later."

"Huh?" The green eyes turned to him, blinking, as if returning back to the present moment. A quick consideration about if Arthur was looking so _cute_ on purpose flashed in the Frenchman's mind, but it faded away as quickly as had appeared. "I'll take you there later," he repeated. "To Notre Dame. Have you been there before?"

"No..."

The waiter came back, carrying two plates of food. He placed them in font of the two men and asked, for reasons unknown, Arthur if everything was pleasant. Francis couldn't stop a small chuckle breaking free from his throat as the Englishman turned to him at the same time both murderous and helpless look in his eyes. However, the Frenchman's laughter died quickly when the waiter placed his hand over Arthur's, asking him a little too worriedly if everything was all right. Appalled, the Englishman yanked his hand away, frowning and giving Francis an inquiring and irritated face.

Francis was irritated, too. Didn't that waiter realize that they were talking in English, and the only reason one would speak English in France was that they could not speak French. Calmly but coldly the Frenchman told the waiter that everything was perfectly fine, and in case he hadn't noticed, the other man couldn't understand French. And now, if he pleased, they would like to enjoy their dinner. The waiter said he was glad that everything was fine and finally left the two men alone.

"What did he want?" Arthur demanded.

"He though you weren't feeling well because you didn't answer him," the Frenchman explained, eager to drop the matter. Too intrusive waiters were not his favourite topics to discuss. "Forget it and taste some _real_ food, now that you have a chance."

"You would think he would have got the fact that I don't speak his blasted language."

"You would," Francis uttered, missing the insult to his language.

Arthur stopped his fork half-way to his mouth. "Actually," he said, putting it back down and making it very hard for Francis not to sigh of irritation. "He could have been hitting on me, but you just wanted to disturb my game and drove him away."

Francis resisted his urge to roll his eyes. "You don't understand him anyway. How would you plan to make your point clear to him?"

Arthur grinned mischievously. "_Body language_," he pronounced slowly.

Francis let his hands down on the table, looking at the Englishman, face blank. Just what was with Arthur and his damned waiter? "If you want me to call him back for you, just say so," he rap out tauntingly.

"I don't." The Englishman shrugged, still smirking. "I don't really care for slimy French waiters."

Francis silently agreed to his words; the Englishman was there with _him_, after all. "In that case, why wouldn't you eat up?"

"You seem so proud of this food, as if you had prepared it yourself," Arthur said haughtily, finally managing to to get the fork with food into his mouth without interruptions.

"It's French cuisine, after all," the Frenchman marked, continuing in self-satisfied way, "However delicious you find that meal, know that my cooking is ten times better."

He watched as how Arthur's eyes fluttered for a brief moment as he tasted his food, visibly enjoying it and obviously trying to hide that fact. "Mmm. I guess then your cooking might be... tolerable, even."

"Perhaps I should cook you once, then." It was a good idea, actually, when the Frenchman started to think about it.

Arthur, however, hadn't listened. "What is this?" He pointed at his plate.

"Oh, it's cooked frog legs with crisped snails," Francis lied with straight face. Arthur instantly dropped his tableware as he stared in pure shock at the Frenchman, who chuckled lightly. "Just kidding, _mon cher_. Just kidding."

"You'd better," the Englishman muttered, cautiously glaring at his food but continuing eating.

Francis focused on his own food, too, and the rest of the dinner they spent in comfortable silence. And when Francis lead Arthur to his house after the dinner, the Englishman didn't object.

X

AN: So, finally in Paris. ^_^

~X~

"_Win as you were used to it, lose as if you enjoyed it for a change."_

_- Ralph Waldo Emerson_


	7. Chapter 7

**The night of the hunter**

**Chapter seven**

The following days went by faster than Francis had expected, and soon he found a week to be a very short time. Because, there were only seven days in a week, and each day was limited to twenty-four hours, too big part of which had to be wasted on sleeping. And there were simply too many things in Paris that Francis wanted to show Arthur.

Fortunately there also were many things that he already had introduced the Englishman. First he had taken him to Notre Dame, and Arthur had loved it, even though he had mumbled something about the spirit of the place being different from churches in England. He had also been oddly interested in old graves on the graveyard around the church; he had walked among them, examining them curiously. That had reminded Francis of Arthur's own loss, but when he had carefully brought the topic up, the Englishman had only snapped at him and repeated that it all had happened long time ago and was nothing for the Frenchman to ask about. That, of course, had got Francis unwillingly even more curious; if the tragedy had happened that far in the past, why would the Englishman still be reacting so furiously about it? There had to be something more about it, and that something was affecting Arthur in a detrimental way.

However, Notre Dame wasn't the only place where Francis took Arthur to. For the first two days he had introduced the Englishman some of the most popular, gorgeous sights to prove him why Paris was better than London, but then he had come to the conclusion that it wasn't just the magnificent façades and great art galleries that made Paris _Paris_. No, the soul of his city was in small, secret streets, cosy cafés and beautiful parks, and of course in the people. So, Francis had decided to take his guest deeper, under the surface, where ordinary tourists couldn't see.

It wasn't until the Frenchman had taken Arthur to a beautiful rose garden, when he had realized that when he wanted to show the Englishman something, he wasn't doing so for the sake of the game. He was doing so to see the green eyes light up in the same way as they had done in the rose garden. Because Francis had never before seen Arthur's face melt into a soft, happy expression, as it had when the Englishman had wandered among the roses, scented them and caressed the red petals gently. From that day on, Francis had developed a habit of adding a rose to the breakfast he made Arthur every morning.

The two men didn't spend much time at Francis' house; only mornings and evenings. Mornings were just fine; the Frenchman would always wake up a little earlier to prepare breakfast, and soon Arthur would appear to the kitchen, drawn by the delicious scent of the food. He was always fully dressed, but with his hair being a total mess and eyes hardly even open, he looked, and probably was, still half asleep. In mornings they didn't speak much, if anything, unless Francis just briefly explained his plans for the day.

The evenings, however, didn't feel quite as comfortable for Francis as the mornings. Every night, after they came back home, they were tired and willing to relax, so Francis would open a bottle of wine and pour some into two glasses. Then they would sit in the living-room, slowly drinking their wine, sometimes talking a little, sometimes sitting in silence. During those evenings they actually learned to know each other better, since they were too tired to switch insults after doing so through the whole day. Arthur, for example, had learned that Francis was an owner of a wine farm and loved being in peaceful countryside, and the Frenchman in turn found out the Englishman to be interested in supernatural phenomena. Those peaceful evenings were just what was needed after a long day, very relaxing and pleasant... Perhaps a little too much. Because when both body and mind were relaxed, the thoughts had a tendency to slip where they shouldn't. Francis blamed the wine for taking his thoughts to dangerous waters. In other words, to Arthur. And that was the thing that made evenings a little uncomfortable for the Frenchman.

Arthur was accommodated in the guest-room that was in the same corridor as Francis' bedroom, right opposite to it to be precise. And every time the two men parted to enter their own rooms, the Frenchman was more and more tempted to grab the Englishman's hand, drag him into his room and have his way with him through the whole night and late into the morning. Francis hadn't expected those thoughts; they came secretly, slowly sneaking into his mind and staying deep there, not letting him be. Sure, he had been joking about getting Arthur into his bed, but he hadn't been serious. Not _too_ serious. Or, at least it should be the Englishman who would come to him, unable to resist his charm. And yet, when Francis was lying in his bed he couldn't stop his thoughts from sneaking into Arthur's room, into Arthur's covers. And that felt rather disruptive, because the Frenchman wasn't used to losing control over himself; it was something other people had problems with, but not him, never him. One complicated Englishman was definitely _not_ a reason to start now. And yet, yet...

Yes, it had to be the wine.

Francis was sitting at the table in his living-room, fingers idly playing with a box on the table. Perhaps he should drink less wine to get rid of the disturbing thoughts invading his mind, but, on the other hand, there were only two days (and one night in between) left of Arthur's visit in Paris, and after that was the pause week in their game, so there shouldn't be any problems the Frenchman wouldn't be able to deal with.

Except, if the Englishman wouldn't hurry, they would be late for the masquerade.

Impatiently tapping the table with his fingers, Francis glanced upstairs, waiting for Arthur to come down. It was the second last night in Paris, and the Frenchman had thought that a masquerade would be a good choice for it. Though Arthur didn't know it was a masquerade they were going; Francis wanted to surprise him. It hadn't been planned, however; Francis had just accidentally spotted a very nice mask in a boutique and instantly it had reminded him of the Englishman. So, he had bought the mask. And what would one do with a mask if not wearing it somewhere such masquerade?

Steps in the stairway got the Frenchman's attention, and he turned to see the Englishman coming down, dressed in black, only having one emerald brooch on else black suit highlighting his green eyes. Francis stood up, smiling at him. "Finally," he said, openly eyeing his guest from head to toe as he walked closer to him. "Not bad, _mon_ _cher_, not bad."

Arthur crossed his arms over his chest in a protective manner. "Hmh. You ready?"

"Just a minute." The Frenchman gestured the Englishman to come closer. "There is something missing."

"And that would be?" Arthur scoffed, but took few more steps towards his host.

Francis opened the box lying on the table and took out a black mask with dark green embroidery. "This," he said proudly, satisfied at the slightly stunned expression on the Englishman's face.

"A... mask?"

"As you can see."

"Why would I need it at the ball?"

"Because it's a masquerade, not ordinary ball."

Arthur didn't say anything, just glared at the Frenchman and the mask in his hands. Francis tilted his head, smiling slightly. "What's wrong? You don't like it?"

"No, it's... gorgeous, but." The Englishman shrugged. "I didn't expect the ball to be a masquerade."

"What difference does it make? I can't see any problems about it, you have the mask and all."

"Well I can't see _you_ wearing a mask," Arthur stated. "Do you have a spare one if you let me use this?"

"I see you misunderstood," Francis chuckled in reply. "Consider this as a gift for you. I have a mask of my own, don't worry." He noticed a small blush sneaking up the Englishman's face and smiled, walking behind him to put on his mask. "Let me help you with this."

"I can put that bloody thing on myself!" Arthur protested, turning to face Francis, but the Frenchman ignored his words and placed the mask on his face, holding it on with his both hands on each side of Arthur's head.

"What are you-" the Englishman sputtered, trying to jerk away from the touch but failing.

Francis looked slightly down, into the green eyes behind the mask and nodded approvingly. "Perfect," he hummed to himself. "Now, don't put up a show, Arthur. Turn around so I can tie the laces."

Arthur snorted and did as was told.

"Hold this thing so it won't fall," the Frenchman instructed him, and when the Englishman raised his hands to hold on the mask, Francis slid his hands to the nape of his neck and took the velvety laces. But, instead of tying them right away, he ran his fingers down the them. There was something in the situation, something in having Arthur so defenceless right before him, that made a sudden urge to tie those smooth laces around the Englishman's neck instead of his head hit Francis. Not to strangle him, not too tight... Just enough to make Arthur look at him with his fascinating, wide open eyes, just to pull him closer without him being able to resist or escape...

"What's taking you so long, frog?" Arthur's sharp voice, maybe with the smallest hint of nervousness in it, cut through the images running through Francis' mind. Vaguely wondering if the Englishman had somehow sensed his mood, the Frenchman hummed calmly and tied the laces behind his head. "_Si impatient_... I was just thinking what kind of bow to make."

"It doesn't matter that much."

"We are in Paris, Arthur," Francis reminded the Englishman, patting his shoulder once being done with the laces. "Here, people pay attention to details."

"Whatever." Arthur stepped away from the Frenchman. "Are we going or what?"

"We are. Such inpatient one, you are," Francis laughed, reaching for the box and taking out another mask, deep blue this time, for himself.

"Two minutes ago it was you who was in hurry."Arthur ran his hand through his short hair and glanced at the Frenchman. "...Thanks. For the mask."

Francis winked at him. "Whatever for you, _cheri_."

xXx

Arthur danced well.

Not only did he just _dance_ well, he had a perfect control over his body and movements. He moved with the music, entwining the melody with his body, leading his partner firmly, knowing exactly what he was doing. He was stunning. Arthur's attention was on his partner, but Francis was sure that once or twice the emerald eyes behind the mask met his own blue ones. Not that he was staring, of course, he would never sink that low.

The music paused, and after bowing to his partner the Englishman walked over to Francis, who was sitting on a divan, enjoying a glass of wine. Arthur sat beside him and the Frenchman offered him some wine, not saying anything. Both men sat in silence for a while, watching people dance as the orchestra began with a new song, a beautiful piece of waltz.

Finally the Englishman broke the silence. "It's not even that hard to get people dance, even if we don't share the same language."

_Of course it isn't, not when you are looking like that_, Francis thought but kept it to himself. Instead, he said, "People have always found mimicry amusing."

The Englishman muttered something that the Frenchman couldn't quite hear and lifted his glass to his lips again, but then frowned. "What, it's empty already?"

The Frenchman laughed. "You just drank it too quickly."

"I was thirsty."

"Then you should have drunk water instead."

"I don't need any advice from my enemy," Arthur snorted arrogantly and half-jokingly, getting to his feet. Francis followed his example. "Now is that so?" he said slowly and Arthur's daring eyes met his own.

"Always," he uttered and turned around, starting to walk away. "I'll get myself more wine."

Francis acted without thinking. He stepped forward and placed his hand on the Englishman's shoulder, stopping him. "It is dangerous to turn your back to your enemy," he purred into his ear, sliding his hand down the Englishman's arm to grab his hand. He felt Arthur shuddering slightly and not giving him time to react, spun him around, pulling him closer.

"Wha-"

"Dance with me Arthur," Francis murmured into his ear, voice low and seducing. Not waiting for reply, he held Arthur close and looking into his enchanting eyes, the Frenchman led them to the dance floor, following the rhythm of waltz.

"F-fine then," the Englishman mumbled, as if he even had any choice at that point.

Holding Arthur hand with one hand and resting the other on the Englishman's slim waist, Francis guided them around the hall. _He knew_ what he was doing and had no hesitation, which perhaps was the reason why this time, unlike the first time they had danced together, Arthur didn't even attempt to lead. Satisfied to finally have the Englishman in his arms after so long time and hidden desire, all the Frenchman was concentrating on was the dance and the way their bodies were touching.

Despite letting himself being led, Arthur wasn't just following Francis sheepishly; his body moved confidently, not asking the Frenchman's permission for making his steps, yet not breaking the harmony of the dance. Francis smirked in his hair, twirling them around as they made their way among other dancing couples. "It has been long time since we last danced."

"I guess."

"We didn't dance at the ball in London."

"...We didn't."

"Then it's good that mistake is corrected." The Frenchman slowed down the pace as the piece of music got closer to its end. He twirled them around one last time and halted when the music died. The two men stood still, looking at each other, neither of them showing any signs for breaking the hold. As new notes, this time tango, began to flow, Francis smiled contentedly and tilted his head. "Shall we?"

"Certainly."

As the first sharp notes after slower beginning filled the air, Francis suddenly pulled the Englishman tightly against himself, the light mood of waltz being replaced with dark passion. Tango was the dance Francis loved the most, and no other dance could fit better for dancing with Arthur. Tango allowed the Frenchman to express everything that he felt towards the other blonde, all the mixed feelings that he had yet couldn't quite name. And above else, there was the passion, the overwhelming passion that was storming inside of him and needed to be released. Oh yes, tango was just what was needed.

And hell, Arthur was good at it. Eyes flashing he answered Francis' moves with lusty passion equal to the Frenchman's.

Francis held Arthur close, hands roaming over his body, one settling between his shoulder blades, another grasping his hand. He took a long step forward, stepping between the Englishman's legs and forcing him bend back. "_On y va,_" he smirked at his partner, leaning over him, and then yanked him up, swirling him around. But, instead of steadying himself, Arthur made an extra turn, freeing himself of the Frenchman's grip and stepping away from him, eyes locked with the blue ones. A small yet very self-conscious smirk flickered on his lips, as if daring Francis to come and get him.

The two men encircled each other, as if waiting for the right moment to strike. Once only Arthur's eyes slipped away from the blue ones, to the Frenchman's displeasure. "There is a woman looking at you," Arthur said harshly in an almost mocking tone.

Francis saw his moment first and downright hurled himself forward, entering Arthur's personal space and closing his arms around him, but not quite touching yet. Almost like sneaking he got behind the Englishman and only then did he lay his hands on him, placing one of them on Arthur's hip and grabbing his wrist with the other, somewhat violently pulling the smaller body tight against himself. "Don't pay attention to other people when you're dancing with me," he muttered, voice low and husky, his lips almost brushing Arthur's ear.

The Englishman tilted his head to the side, exposing his neck and meeting the demand of the night-blue eyes. "Then give a reason not to," he replied darkly.

And Francis did. Both of them quickly lost themselves into the haze of music, passion and each other. Their bodies moved together, adjusting to the same rhythm as if they could read each others' minds or were just two halves of one body. At times their dance was nearly gentle, at times it was almost violent and resembled a duel. Francis didn't see or hear other people around him; all he could sense was the Englishman. Being so close to him just felt so damn _right_.

Those few minutes that the dance lasted felt both like a fraction of a second and eternity, but however long it really was, eventually the music reached its peak and started to slowly fade away.

Francis blinked, mind snapping back into reality. His arms were still around Arthur, whose limbs were wrapped equivalently firmly around the Frenchman, their faces close enough to feel each others' heavy breathing. For a little while they remained in their position, trying to steady their breathing and rapidly beating hearts, but as the last notes died, they broke apart.

Francis reluctantly slid his hands off the Englishman and crooked a smile. "That was not bad at all," he complimented.

"Yeah..." Arthur replied slowly, taking a step backwards. "I think there was enough dancing for me."

"It's rather hot here," Francis marked. "I'd appreciate some fresh air now. Where was the balcony?"

"There," Arthur pointed, and the two men started to make their way to the opened doors of the balcony, navigating among dancing couples.

Francis spotted a pretty, young woman, almost a girl, staring at him in a shamelessly open way. "I see there is a nestling getting familiar with banquets."

The Englishman glanced at the girl. "She shouldn't stare so openly," he snorted. "Especially when there is really nothing special to look at."

"Is that so?" the Frenchman laughed. "Her gaze tells otherwise. Can you see? She would die for a kiss from me."

Stepping out to the balcony through the open doors, Arthur didn't give the girl a second glance. "I can see," he said slowly. "Though I can't see why."

Francis let out a disbelieving sound, half amused and half appalled. "Dear Arthur," he began, going and leaning against the railing of the balcony, resting his eyes on the Englishman. "You can't be serious. _Anyone_ who has caught a sight of me would wish to kiss me."

Arthur's annoyingly daring eyes met his. "So you really claim that you are that good a kisser, don't you?"

"And you don't believe that?"

A cold breeze made both men shiver, but neither of them moved to get back inside. Francis could hear the music coming from the hall, but it was distant, as if it belonged in a dream.

"Well," the Englishman stated. "The weaker the dog is, the louder it barks. I believe your reputation as a kisser is simply exaggerated."

"Oh?" Francis arched his eyebrow. "Then would you like to try yourself, better than speculate?"

The dare was laid between the two men. Silence between them only lasted for few seconds.

"Bring it on."

The Frenchman hadn't fully expected the answer he had got, and was pleasantly surprised. "Well then," he said, stepping closer to the Englishman, so that they stood chest to chest. For a moment neither of them moved, saying nothing. Francis found it to be actually slightly awkward; while he really wanted to kiss Arthur, he hadn't thought it would happen like this. Probably for the first time he wasn't quite sure how to go on, especially when the Englishman was looking at him like that, nervous and waiting and-

Francis placed his fingers under Arthur's chin to lift his face for a better access for a kiss and leaned forward. He pressed their lips together, first tentatively, then firmly, running his tongue along the Englishman's lips, coaxing him to part them. Francis tasted the faint flavour of wine in Arthur's mouth, and just as he thought how _good_ it felt to be finally kissing him, the Englishman started to kiss back. That was when the Frenchman's mind went blank. He draped his arm around Arthur's waist, pulling him closer, and slid his other hand to support the Englishman's back. Arthur let out a quiet, breathless moan and responded by wrapping his arms around Francis' neck in order to deepen the kiss. The Frenchman groaned lowly and pushed him against the railing of the balcony, which forced the Englishman to arch his back, slightly leaning backwards over the railing.

The need to breath finally forced Francis to pull away. Well _that_ was a kiss; the Frenchman's heart was beating furiously and he was panting, not remembering when he had felt that burning sensation last.

He released his partner, stepping back to both give and gain some space between them. While he wanted to get closer again, to proceed to something _more_ than a kiss, at the same time he felt the need to get some distance to clear his head and figure out the stormy feelings inside of him.

Arthur was still leaning against the railing, his chest billowing up and down with his quick breathing. His lips were still slightly parted, and he looked dazed and unmistakeably flushed. Francis flashed him a smile. "Well, Arthur, may I hear your opinion?"

"It..." Arthur detached himself of the railing and fixed his tie, clearing his throat and avoiding the Frenchman's eyes. "It was... slightly over the average."

"Slightly?" Francis repeated but didn't push any further; this time there was no doubt how he had affected the Englishman. Arthur had enjoyed the kiss just as much as the Frenchman. A sly, contented smirk appeared to play on his lips. "Now really?"

"Yes," Arthur assured, busying himself with watching the view the balcony had on a dark, nocturnal park. "I... think I'll get myself some wine." With that, the Englishman hurried past Francis and back inside.

"Of course Arthur," Francis murmured to himself, watching how Arthur's back disappeared into the crowd.

Another cold breeze travelled over the Frenchman and he shivered, missing the warmth of the Englishman's body. He leaned against the railing, gazing into the night. Now, what he had felt... Francis couldn't remember if he had ever felt anything as strong and shocking as he had felt that night, first when dancing with Arthur and then when kissing him. The Frenchman frowned. It was bothering him; had it been just the _kiss_ thrilling him, or actually the fact that it had been _Arthur_? He had to know. In order to save his sanity, he had to know if he was seriously developing feelings for a rude, grumpy Englishman.

Francis turned around, looking back into the hall and wondering if he should follow Arthur's example and get himself some wine. Then something crimson caught his sight and he saw a gorgeous woman, well on her thirties, looking at him through the window. The woman winked at him, and the Frenchman recognised his old friend, a well-known temptress who had taught him some of his tricks he used when seducing people. He smiled, and she entered the balcony.

"Good evening, _madame _Alexandrie," Francis said, kissing her hand.

"Long time no seen, Francis," she replied, smiling warmly. "How have you been? I was a bit surprised not to see you at Marianne's ball last week."

Francis laughed airily. "Believe it or not, _madame_, I was in England."

"Oh," she grinned knowingly. "Had it something to do with that charming little Englishman you were kissing just a moment ago?"

The Frenchman chuckled. "There is nothing that can avoid your eyes." He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. "_Oui_, it had."

"You sound bothered."

Francis looked at her, the woman whom he considered both his friend and teacher and whom he respected a lot, and laughed nervously. "I suppose." He shook his head. Well, there was his chance to figure out the mess in his mind. "Say, _madame_, may I kiss you?"

She laughed warm-heartedly. "Poor boy, what has happened to you?" Eyes glinting sympathetically she shifted before him. "Go ahead."

Francis did as was told. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her deeply. _Madame_ Alexandrie was an experienced kisser – that's how she had gained her reputation in the first place. But her kiss didn't set Francis on fire, no matter how good it was. Not knowing whether he should feel happy or appalled, the Frenchman pulled away. "Hm."

"Did it solve your problem?" _madame_ asked, smiling like a mother smiles to her child when proud of them.

Francis shook his head again. "Yes... Yes, I think so. Unfortunately," he muttered, sighing. "_Merci_."

"No problem. It was good to see you again, Francis." She laughed, her deep voice familiar and comforting. Turning around, she winked at him before returning back inside, saying casually, " Good luck with him."

Francis bowed his head to her, already deep in his thoughts. So. It _was_ because of Arthur. Absolutely wonderful.

Francis stayed on the balcony for a little while more, but as Arthur didn't show up, he went back inside to look for him, wondering if the Englishman had been caught in a bottle of wine or something.

The thought wasn't actually that far from the truth; when Francis spotted the Englishman, he was sitting on a divan, accompanied by a only half-empty glass of wine. Arthur was swirling the red liquid in in the glass, not bothering to react when the Frenchman sat beside him.

"Wine sure is a fascinating thing."

The only reply Francis got was a grunt. The Frenchman arched his eyebrow at the change in Arthur's mood. "My," he said, "Why so sour?"

The Englishman didn't move his eyes off the wine. "Got a headache," he said blankly.

Francis frowned. "That's too bad. And that wine for sure is not going to help-"

"Would you just mind your own sodding business?" Arthur interrupted him angrily, emptying his glass with one easy movement. Francis clicked his tongue, still frowning, now a little worriedly. "As polite as always, I can see." He stood up, looking down at the negative appearance of the Englishman. "Well let's go home, shall we? There is no point in sticking here if you are not feeling well."

"oh, don't let me spoil your night, _Mr. bloody Bonnefoy_," Arthur spat sarcastically. "Go ahead. Dance. Have your fucking fun. Just let me be."

"No need to be such melodramatic, _cher_," Francis uttered calmly. He grabbed Arthur's upper arm, pulling the swearing Englishman up. "Let's go. Do you need help?"

"Like hell I need!" Arthur yanked his arm of Francis' grip and started to stride towards the exit.

"If your head hurts so much, I could kiss it better," the Frenchman suggested half-jokingly, catching up with the Englishman, who turned to him so suddenly that Francis was happy the glass was already empty. The green eyes flashed with anger that surprised the Frenchman.

"Just let me be!" Arthur snapped at him. "Go and fucking kiss every bloody idiot here, you already had a good start!"

"But that would leave only you," Francis stated, grinning and making himself a mental note that Arthur was a monster when suffering from headache. "Now, yelling won't ease your pain, _cheri_."

Arthur sputtered curses under his breath and fell silent after that. During the whole way back to the Frenchman's house he said nothing, and Francis didn't bother him. If he had dared, he would have made a comment of how cute Arthur looked when sulking, but in the end, Francis considered his life too precious to be risked.

When they finally got back to Francis' home and the Frenchman had let them in, Arthur quickly headed to the stairs leading up to his room. At the stairs, however, he halted. As Francis was taking his mask off, he noticed the Englishman turning to him as if wanting to say something. The Frenchman looked at him questioningly, but Arthur seemed to choose to remain silent after all, and continued his way up. Francis smiled to himself.

"_Bonne nuit, mon Anglais_," he called after the distancing Englishman, and as the blonde glanced back, Francis blew him a kiss and winked.

"Whatever," Arthur muttered barely audibly and disappeared up.

Hearing the door of the Englishman's room shutting, Francis went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of wine – he hadn't had too many at the masquerade. He sat down on his sofa and stared into his glass, unsatisfied with himself.

There was no point in denying the fact that Arthur was growing into something more than a mere rival to Francis, and it felt thrilling. But. It meant that Francis was losing his own game, which thought he didn't like.

He didn't like it at all.

X

AN: Okay, I give up. These chapters grow longer than I had expected. =_= Also, I do hope the minimal French I use in this fic is correct (translated by google translator)...

Sorry, you'll have to wait for a while for the next chapter.

~X~

"_To love and win is the best thing, to love and lose, the next best."_

_- William M. Thackeray_


	8. Chapter 8

**The night of the hunter**

**Chapter eight**

That night Arthur saw a nightmare. Well, not really a nightmare, but a very unpleasant dream. In that dream, he had been dancing with Francis. They were twirling around a hall that was decorated with red roses, and they were throwing insults at each other. Suddenly Gilbert appeared there, coming out of nowhere. Laughing evilly, he tied Arthur and Francis together with a huge French flag, so tight that they would never be able to free themselves, thus were forced to stay together forever.

Arthur stirred from the dream, his heart beating rapidly. Trying to steady himself, he laid in the bed, staring at a random point in still dark guest-room. He felt nervous, as people had a tendency to feel after unpleasant dreams. But the reason why Arthur was feeling nervous, was because in his dream, the only unpleasant thing had been Gilbert.

Arthur rolled restlessly on his side. Hadn't he seen the damn frog enough while being awake, why had he even have dreams of him? Okay, it might have had something to do with the masquerade of the previous evening, the dancing, and the kiss he and Francis had shared... And then again, Arthur thought bitterly, if people always dreamed of people they had just kissed, the Frenchman's dreams were probably crowded. Besides, why had Francis even kissed that woman on the balcony? It wasn't necessary for the game, so he wouldn't get any extra points by doing so.

Arthur rolled on his stomach. Well, it didn't seem that one kiss there or there meant much for the Frenchman.

Not that it meant for Arthur, either.

And yet, Francis really didn't have to kiss that bloody woman right after he had kissed Arthur...

The Englishman growled, burying his face into the soft pillow. At this rate he would be having a headache, this time_ for real_.

Arthur didn't remember falling asleep again, but at some point he must have had done so, since later in the morning he woke up to autumn sunlight playing on his face. But despite the sun, Arthur's mood wasn't as bright as the weather. He felt drained and confused, which was the exact opposite of what he would like to feel on his last day in Paris, particularly with the Frenchman being around.

Arthur sighed and rubbed his temples, trying to convince himself to to take a better hold of himself. It shouldn't be that hard; it was his last day in Paris. In the evening he would return back to England and have a week without the Frenchman to come back to his senses. He only had to go through this day discreetly.

Which wouldn't happen with an empty stomach. Judging of the sun, the morning wasn't too early anymore. Francis was probably waiting for him downstairs, with breakfast prepared and a red rose placed beside the Englishman's plate, and one of his smiles shining on his beaming face. Arthur sighed again and got off the bed, catching his reflection in a mirror that was hanging on the wall. He looked horrible; dark circles were decorating his eyes, his hair resembled more a mop or a bird's nest than hair, and his usually bright eyes seemed dull and tired.

Arthur stared at his reflection. Usually he looked this horrible only after getting drunk and waking up to suffer from hangover, but now it appeared that sleepless night with disturbing thoughts had the same effect.

"What happened to you?" he asked his reflection, but even though its lips moved, there came no answer. Not that Arthur wanted to hear the answer. He didn't want to know what had changed his desire from winning the game and humiliating Francis into nonchalance about the matter. Well, he had nothing against seeing the Frenchman on his knees, but it didn't matter that much anymore. Because it wouldn't be enough. It wouldn't be satisfying. Deep inside, Arthur knew that he wanted something more than that. He desired something deeper, something more personal... Just the game wasn't enough, and it was almost scary, the hunger for 'something more'.

"Stupid man," Arthur scolded his reflection. Then, after re-considering, he muttered, "Stupid frog." It was all Francis' fault. Arthur had been having so normal and peaceful life before the Frenchman had intruded it and made everything so bloody difficult.

The Englishman gave the reflection a frown before turning his back to it and slumping back on the bed. He really didn't feel like facing Francis, perhaps it would be much better to stay in bed instead.

But a knock on the door and the all too familiar voice were enough for Arthur to change his mind.

"Arthur~" Francis sang all but sang behind the door. "If you want to have your breakfast in bed, you should have said so instead of just waiting there."

A small groan escaped Arthur. "I don't want to have it in bed," he replied tiredly. "I'll be down in a minute."

But of course that wanker couldn't let him be. "No need to be shy~" Francis cooed, ignoring the Englishman's words. "I'll go and get your breakfast."

"I said no need for that!" Arthur shouted, jumping off the bed and rushing to the door, throwing it open. "I said I'll be right down!"

Francis was still behind the door, and he gave the furious Englishman a long look. "My," he said, arching his elegant eyebrow. "You look horrible."

Suddenly Arthur became very aware of his everything but presentable appearance. He looked down at himself and realized that he hadn't even changed his clothes yet; he was wearing nothing else but long, baggy shirt he slept in and his underwear. Face turning red, the Englishman gave a glare at the Frenchman, who was looking as fabulous as always, and resisted the urge to slam the door shut to his face. "Oh, really," he said sarcastically. "Thank you very much for kindly informing me."

Shaking his head, Francis frowned, and Arthur got a glimpse of a crimson ribbon tying back the Frenchman's silky, long hair (the very opposite of Arthur's). "I didn't mean it like that," Francis said. "How are you feeling?"

The question got Arthur off guard and he shrugged. "Why, wonderful." Before Francis had time to tell his own opinion, the Englishman continued. "Now, would you let me get dressed so I could come down?"

Francis smirked. "Of course," he said, taking a step to get into the guest-room. "Never mind me, just go on like-"

Arthur slammed the door shut to his face.

xXx

"And this is..?" Arthur kept his voice unimpressed, although the building in front of him was pleasant to look at.

"The Opera House," Francis explained proudly. "No one can visit France without experiencing a real French opera."

"Oh..."

"You do like theatre, do you?"

"I do..." Arthur said slowly, feeling slightly ashamed. "But I enjoy it much more when I understand what it is about."

Francis gave a hearty laughter, draping his arm around his shoulders. Arthur almost forgot to shrug to get the persistent arm away, but as it stayed there anyway, he let it be.

"True, but isn't it so that not understanding the words, you pay more attention to everything else such tones and body language?" Francis asked, squeezing Arthur's shoulder a little. "That way you can go deeper and notice things others don't maybe even see."

Arthur glared at the Frenchman. "So theoretically I should enjoy the opera more than you?"

"Hardly," Francis grinned, arching his eyebrow suggestively. "_I_ see every little signs in body language anyway." He winked at Arthur, who looked away from him, stating a hopefully bored 'oh'. "I was just trying to make you feel better about not knowing the language," the Frenchman continued.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I don't get you," he muttered. How was he supposed to know when Francis really meant something he said, and when he was just saying -or doing- things for his own entertainment?

When the Frenchman said nothing, Arthur turned to look at him again, only to see him staring at him with a thoughtful expression. "W-what?"

Francis shook his head and gave a small smile. "_Je ne vous comprends pas toujours, que ce soit, donc je suppose que nous sommes encore__._"

Arthur blinked. "I still didn't understand you," he remarked. Was that frog mocking him or what?

"Then I guess I'll have to start teaching you French one day, Arthur," the Frenchman laughed. "Anyway, shall we go in?"

"The day I understand what you are saying in French, I'll start learning it."

"I'll keep that in mind," Francis promised and opened the door of the Opera House, gesturing the Englishman to walk in.

Even Arthur had to admit that the Opera House was gorgeous inside. It was very ceremonious, yet somehow elegantly casual at the same time, and full of people in fancy dresses.

"Our places are in a stand," Francis instructed and placed his hand on Arthur's back, to guiding him towards stairs.

"What?" Arthur didn't even notice the hand on his back sliding slightly lower as he stepped on the stairs. "But those places are insanely expensive!" He turned around to face the Frenchman, intending to say something more, but froze. Standing one step higher that Francis, Arthur could look at him for one from up to down, and what he saw was almost breathtaking. Francis was _handsome_. Damn, he was so... Light was falling on his face _just so_, highlighting half of it while casting the other half in shadows, and that small smile on those lips, together with the look of the deep blue eyes, got Arthur dumbfounded. The locks that were left out of the ponytail were framing the whole picture, and the Englishman got a sudden urge to wrap that soft hair around his fingers and, and, why was Francis smiling at him like that?

The Frenchman stepped on the same step as Arthur, making the Englishman look slightly up in order to look him in the eyes. "Whatever for you, Arthur, haven't I already said that?" he purred, giving a small wink and coaxing him to continue up. "Since we are here, we can as well enjoy this as much as we can."

"Don't you wink at me," Arthur uttered, only then noticing that Francis' hand was almost on his waist. For some reason he decided to let it be there and continued his way up, hoping the heat on his face was something else than blushing.

The stand where the two men's seats were, had indeed an excellent view to the stage. Arthur eyed about a dozen of chairs. "Which are ours?"

"Whichever you choose," Francis shrugged and sat down on one of the chairs. "I booked the whole place for us."

Arthur stared at the Frenchman again for a moment, then warily sat down beside him. "You are a pompous bastard, did you know that?"

The Frenchman chuckled and wrapped his arm around the Englishman's shoulders again, pulling him just the tiniest bit closer to himself. "Well, we don't want anyone to bother us, do we, mmm?"

Arthur hated the effect that that alluring, velvety voice had on him. He hated the shivers that ran through his body when Francis' fingers, accidentally or not, brushed his neck, and he hated the seductive look the Frenchman had in his eyes. A sudden and a very, very viable memory of Francis' arms around him, his lips covering his, surged to Arthur's mind, and for a short moment he thought, _he is going to kiss me, he is going to lean in and-_ But Francis did quite the opposite; he let go of the Englishman's shoulders, sliding his arm away, and turned to look at the stage. Arthur blinked and followed the Frenchman's example, now hating himself, too, and his blushing face. And the not so small lump of disappointment in the pit of his stomach.

The two men said nothing anymore, leaving it for the opera to fill the silence. The singers were magnificent, and even though Arthur didn't understand the lyrics, the pieces of music still managed to get straight into his heart. Francis had been right about what he had said outside the Opera House, on some level, but still the Englishman believed that understanding the language would make the experience even more enjoyable.

Francis seemed to be completely drawn into what was happening on the stage, but Arthur had a tickling feeling that the Frenchman was glancing at him whenever he wasn't looking. Most of the time Arthur was most likely just being paranoid, but once he caught Francis staring at him with a serious, unreadable face. He was frowning slightly and didn't even try to hide his gaze when Arthur met his eyes, nor did he change his expression, which the Englishman found rather unnerving. However, neither of them said anything, and when the Frenchman finally turned back to the stage, Arthur found he couldn't focus on the opera anymore.

Damn that frog.

By the time the opera ended, Arthur had come up with a mantra he repeated over and over again: just a couple of hours and then he would have a week to clear his head without the Frenchman being around, just a couple of hours...

Francis stood up from his seat and shot one of his dazzling smiles at the Englishman, as if he hadn't even been acting weirdly earlier. "Something to eat?"

"Something to eat."

The two men walked down the stairs and headed to the café of the Opera House, where appeared that Francis had made a table reservation, too.

"Git," Arthur complimented as they sat at the small, round table, waiting for a waiter to come. "What if I had been totally against the idea of having something to eat?"

Francis shrugged. "We would have improvised. Things don't always have to go exactly as planned."

"So it seems," Arthur muttered quietly.

"_Excusez-moi?_"

"Nothing."

"Ah." The Frenchman rested his chin on his hand, leaning slightly forward. "Anyway, do you have any plans for the break week?"

"I don't know," Arthur replied, looking around for a waiter. "Work, perhaps."

"Sounds boring."

"That's because you are a lazy bastard." Arthur spotted a waitress and was just about to wave his hand, but then quickly put it back down. It couldn't be. Was she..? No, she couldn't be. Even Arthur couldn't have that bad luck. He glanced at the waitress once more, just to be sure.

"Oh fuck," he barely whispered, quickly turning his face away from the waitress, who was just serving an old couple their coffee. It _was_ her after all. Arthur felt his heartbeat quickening. It was far too ridiculous to be true that a woman that had worked at his parents' mansion, when Arthur had been a kid, was now in the very same Parisian café where Arthur was at the moment.

"-ur?"

Arthur blinked, giving a look at confused-looking Francis. "Sorry?"

"Are you alright?"

"Yes... Francis, listen," the Englishman began, casually trying to cover his face from the waitress in case she happened to look at their direction. "How about changing our plans and improvising after all?" he suggested hastily, fearing for the waitress to spot them. The ex-maid of Kirklands' mansion had always had a bad skill to appear whenever she wasn't needed.

Arthur had no interest in meeting the ghosts of the past, and that woman, Lucinda, if he recalled her name right, was definitely one of those. When Arthur had left his family's mansion at the age of fifteen, he had decided to leave it all behind, the house, the people, and the haunting memories. At the latter he had failed, but save for his family, he successfully hadn't even heard of other people who were or had been living in the mansion. And he most certainly wasn't going to start now.

Francis raised his eyebrow. "What's wrong, Arthur?" he asked worriedly. "You look pale. Would you like to have a cup of tea or something?" Saying so, the Frenchman lifted his hand to catch the waitress' attention.

"Don't-" Arthur almost cried, but too late; Lucinda had noticed them and started to approach them.

"You fucking twit," Arthur scowled at the Frenchman. "Fine. Then order something for both of us. Quickly."

The Frenchman gave him a puzzled look but as the waitress reached their table, turned hi attention to her. Arthur kept stubbornly staring to the opposite direction, hoping for the waitress to leave without noticing him.

But of course he had no such luck.

"And for you, mist-" Arthur shut his eyes, giving a last prayer to disappear or die or _anything_ if only _now, _but no. The change in waitress' tone was enough to tell the Englishman it just wasn't his day. "Young mister Kirkland!"

Reluctantly Arthur resigned himself to inevitable and faced the soon middle-aged woman, forcing a polite smile upon his lips. "Oh. Lucinda, if I'm not mistaken."

"You remember me!" she exclaimed, almost clapping her hands of pure bliss. Arthur hoped she would choke on it.

Francis gave a small, polite cough and instantly got Lucinda's attention. "Who is this? Is this your love, Arthur? Did you leave us for him back then?"

There was one more reason Arthur couldn't stand the woman. The Frenchman seemed to be trying his hardest not to laugh, and Arthur sent him a murderous glare. "This," he gestured at Francis, "is Francis. _Bonnefard_."

He received a frown from the Frenchman but ignored it; served Francis right, Lucinda would call him Bonnefard for the rest of his life.

"Nice to meet you," Lucinda said hastily, turning back to the Englishman. "Oh, we were all so sad when you left. But of course you had to get away, Elizaveta's death was so hard for you."

Arthur felt like a shock wave had hit his body. For a short moment his senses went numb as an image of fire and a burning body flashed in his mind. There was another reason why he couldn't stand Lucinda. She just couldn't _let things be. _"Uh," Arthur mumbled. "Yes. Erm, now, what about-"

But Lucinda was not one to drop a matter she had just got started with. "Poor girl," she said, shaking her head sadly. "She was young and had her life ahead, and a handsome fiancé waiting for her. In the end, they never got each other." She sighed dramatically.

"A fiancé?" Arthur asked weakly, feeling cold sweat on his palms. Elizaveta had had a fiancé? Wonderful, there was one more detail to make the whole picture even more disastrous.

"Yes, a young aristocrat. Her death was such a shock for him."

"Of course," Arthur mumbled, feeling suddenly very cold. He knew he wouldn't be able to stay calm much longer – the guilt was upon him like a stormy cloud, pulling him down like a sack of stones. It was there every day and night, not letting him be. He knew it was his fault that so many people had to suffer and Elizaveta had met her end, wasn't that enough of a punishment? He just wanted to forget, it was all he had wished for, and even at that had he miserably failed. He knew what he had done - he needed no reminders about it.

"Do you know what caused that fire that night, young mister Kirkland?" Lucinda asked, leaning towards the Englishman as if going to reveal a huge secret. "Someone hadn't done their job. Some candles were left forgetfully for the night."

Arthur's mouth went dry. He kept his eyes trained on the table in front of him, fearing for them to reveal the truth that it had been him, him, _him_. "I-I see..."

"If only I knew who it was, I'd kill them!" Lucinda blustered solemnly, then she acted sad again. "Poor Arthur, I know how close she was to you."

_Go away, go away, please go away,_ Arthur pleaded in his mind, squeezing his eyes shut to prevent the tears. _I can't take it anymore!_

"Isn't it the time for you to get my order already?"

Arthur blinked, the Frenchman's calm voice interrupting the conversation. Only then did the Englishman realize that Francis had been quietly following everything from his seat, saying nothing, and that he had probably heard what wouldn't have been necessary for him to know.

"Oh, sorry, of course," Lucinda exclaimed and turned to go. "It was wonderful to meet you again, young mister Kirkland," she cooed and hurried away.

"Arthur," Francis said as soon as the waitress was gone. Arthur couldn't bring himself to look the Frenchman in the eye and he had no idea what to say after such a show, so he just started at the table. "Uh..."

Francis got off his chair and the Englishman felt himself being tugged after him. "Come," Francis said, leading, or better said dragging him away from the café.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked, looking at the Frenchman's back.

"Improvising."

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know," Francis replied, stepping out of the building on the street and dragging Arthur after him. "But I don't want her to be near to you anymore."

Arthur tried to breath steadily and appear calm, and yanked his arm of the Frenchman's grip. "Why is that?" he tried to laugh, but all he could manage was a pathetic whimper.

Francis stopped suddenly and and turned to face the Englishman, grabbing his both shoulders and looking straight into his eyes. "Arthur, I'm neither blind nor stupid. She was hurting you. Or something she said was."

_Why would you care?_ echoed in the Englishman's mind, but he didn't dare to ask the question out loud. He tried to look away from those blue eyes, but they kept his own captured.

"Arthur," Francis said gently, giving a comforting squeeze to his shoulders. "Tell me."

"There is nothing to-"

"Don't even start with that nonsense!" the Frenchman exclaimed. "I already told you, I'm not blind or stupid. I can see that something is bothering you, and apparently has been for a long time already!"

Unable to bare with those serious eyes, Arthur shut his own, attempting to keep any signs of weakness hidden inside him. He could not break. Not in front of Francis.

But that concerned voice didn't stop. "Arthur, I'm not trying to pry into your personal business. I just happen to believe that talking helps old wounds to heal."

Why did Francis have to say his name like that? Despite all his struggle, Arthur felt one tear escaping his closed eyes and rolling down his cheek. One was followed by another that was followed by the next one, until the tears were impossible to count anymore. Arthur raised his hands to cover his face, and a pair of strong arms wrapped protectively around him, pulling him close to the Frenchman. Francis hummed calmingly something as he soothingly rubbed Arthur's back, holding him gently and ensuring that he was there, right there for him. Neither of the two men cared anymore that they were in the middle of a Parisian street.

"I just want to forget, I want it to let go of me," Arthur sobbed into the Frenchman's chest. "But I can't, it's always there, always there..."

Francis stroked his hair, saying nothing but making encouraging sounds, and the Englishman found himself talking.

"I was twelve or so at the time," he mumbled. "I was living in my family's mansion on the countryside. The mansion was huge, so we had a lot of people to take care of it. Elizaveta was one of them. Her main duty was to take care of me. And she did, ever since I was a small kid. She cared for me more than anyone in that mansion, and she was the most important person in my life."

Arthur stopped. He couldn't tell Francis the truth, that it had been him whose fault the fire had been, whose fault Elizaveta's death had been. He didn't want Francis to look at him the same way his mother, the only person who knew the truth, had for a several months after the accident – knowing, not downright blaming him, but always being unintentionally slightly bothered by the truth.

"What happened?" Francis asked, though he probably had already put the pieces together.

"There was a fire one night," Arthur said quietly, memories of that night filling his mind. "there was a fire, and... And she died. I- I was the last one who saw her alive, but... I couldn't help her, I could do nothing, and I- I left her there..." New tears started to fall from his eyes as the image of trapped Elizaveta haunted before his eyes. "And I can't forget it..."

Francis was silent for a while, and when he spoke, his voice was soft and calming. "That's good. Don't forget, Arthur. You won't gain anything by forgetting."

"But it hurts, Francis," Arthur merely whispered. "To remember. Every day."

Francis pushed him little further from himself in order to look into his eyes. "_Oui_, it hurts. But forgetting will hurt even more." He wiped the Englishman's tears away with his fingers and smiled encouragingly. "You have to accept the past, Arthur. Only so you can live with it, and one day you'll notice it doesn't hurt anymore."

Arthur met the sincere, gentle blue eyes. What Francis had said made sense, but how was Arthur supposed to _accept_ what he had done? "Easy for you to say," he muttered, starting to feel embarrassed of showing his inmost so openly to the Frenchman.

"Try it," Francis coaxed, rubbing Arthur's shoulders. "You'll see, time will heal you if you give it a chance." He then leaned forward and pressed a small, soft kiss on the Englishman's forehead. "Okay?"

Arthur felt blood rushing to his face and his cheeks heating despite the cold evening. "Okay," he said slowly, giving a half-hearted glare at the beaming Frenchman. "Uh... Thank you," he added quietly.

"_Pas de problème,_" Francis tilting his head and smiling warmly. "_Et rappelez-vous, je serai là pour vous._"

"What?"

"Willing to start learning French already?" the Frenchman laughed.

"You wish!"

"Then don't ask."

Arthur snorted.

"Well, we still have time," Francis remarked. "There is a nice restaurant nearby, shall we go there?"

"I guess we have to," the Englishman responded, looking at the Frenchman and not even trying to smother the pleasant warmth that was spreading around his body.

The dinner was delicious, and Arthur had to admit that he was going to miss those dishes he had had in France when he would be home again, munching his own cooking (that was perfectly edible, mind you!). After the dinner Francis accompanied Arthur to the train station, insisting on carrying his luggage to the train. Before entering the train, the Englishman turned around to take his bag and saw the Frenchman smiling at him oddly. "What?" he asked warily.

"Nothing," Francis replied. "This just is the second time you leave Paris like this."

Arthur returned the smile. "And the second time when you'll come after me to London."

Francis laughed. "In fact, I didn't purposely follow you that time." His voice got a thoughtful tone. "It really was a twist of fate that we happened to meet again."

_A twist of fate,_ Arthur thought in the train, when it already had left Paris. _Indeed_...

Was it fate, then? Everything that had happened in Paris, everything he had felt then and now, was it all because of fate? Arthur felt hot and cold, pleasant and disturbed, something he had never felt before. And it felt _right_...

_I fell for his tricks,_ Arthur thought, looking out of the window and watching the scenery changing. _I fell for his tricks like a bloody brainless girl. _He couldn't ignore his disorderly feelings, but he knew that whenever feelings got involved with any kind of business, they were sign of weakness.

This game was getting dangerous.

X

"_Sometimes the best gain is to lose."_

_-George Herbert_

AN: Finally! Here I am again! ...Hey, throwing those rotten vegetables is not necessary at all!

Okay, perhaps I deserve it. I'm really horribly sorry it took me so long to update. But, the eighth chapter is here now, so it's okay..? :3

Thanks to all of you who have been sticking with me with this, and special thanks for those who have commented, faved, etc. It means a lot to me. :D


	9. Chapter 9

**The night of the hunter**

**Chapter nine**

"I saw Arthur yesterday," Gilbert announced.

"Is that so," Ivan stated, not very interested.

"Yeah. He was in a restaurant with that Japanese."

"Really." Ivan raised his eyebrow. "Then what were _you_ doing there?"

The Prussian shrugged and grinned at him. "What do people usually do in restaurants? I was having a dinner, naturally."

Gilbert was doing that on purpose, trying to jeer him. And yet Ivan couldn't help asking, "With who?"

The question was obviously _exactly_ what that cocky Prussian had wanted to hear. He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back on his sofa, smirking at the Russian with a red, mocking gleam in his eyes. "What, you jealous?"

Ivan gave him a calm, steady look, not bothering to reply such words. As usually, Gilbert remained unaffected to his gaze and faced it straight, crimson eyes radiating energy and playful confrontation. Perhaps that was the reason Ivan was so attracted to him; the Prussian wasn't afraid of him in the slightest, but accepted him the way he was. A small smile crept on Ivan's face. Not only accepted; Gilbert _liked_ him the way he was, and the Russian himself knew that he was the only one who could satisfy the Prussian's desire. That's why he didn't need to be jealous, and Gilbert knew it. On the other hand, Ivan was jealous anyway, and unfortunately Gilbert knew that too.

"Anyway, I was there with Arthur."

"I thought Arthur was there with that Japanese."

"Actually you could say _Kiku_ was there with _us,_" Gilbert explained. "I met Arthur when he was on his way to the restaurant and decided to join him, so _I_ was with him first."

"You decided to join him," Ivan repeated, unimpressed. "Are you sure your company was appreciated?"

"Of course it was." The answer came without a second thought (as everything from Gilbert), and there was no hesitation in the Prussian's voice. His self-confidence made the Russian smile in amusement.

"When did Arthur return from France?" he asked idly despite the lack of real interest in the matter.

"Yesterday morning," Gilbert replied, shrugging. "You know, it's weird."

"What is?"

"Arthur. He was uncharacteristically absent minded all the time."

"Perhaps he was tired from the trip," Ivan suggested, not seeing anything weird about the matter. Though he didn't know the Englishman like Gilbert did.

"Perhaps. But if he was, I doubt he would talk about Francis."

Ivan arched his eyebrow again. "He just spent a week there. Why wouldn't he?"

"Because he was supposed to hate him!" the Prussian exclaimed with a tone that suggested Ivan to be a little slow-witted.

The Russian looked at him calmly. "Well what did he say about him, then?"

"Nothing unusual," Gilbert said, shrugging. "Just described how stupid Francis is."

Ivan stared at the silver-haired man and shook his head. "_Баран_. You make no sense."

"_Was_?"

"You are saying that Arthur acted weird even though he did nothing unusual."

Gilbert rolled his eyes. "You are so simple-minded, Ivan. He _said_ nothing unusual, but his face and tone – _that's _what was weird."

"Did you just call me simple-minded?"

"I actually got the feeling that Arthur likes Francis."

Ivan sighed, growing tired about the matter. "That wouldn't be a wonder."

"What do you mean?"

Ivan smiled contentedly at Gilbert's suddenly sharp tone and flashing eyes. "Well, Francis sure is attractive, isn't he?"

"You've met him only once!"

Ivan chuckled softly._ Now look who is jealous. _"My point is that I don't find it weird if Arthur likes Francis." True, Ivan had met the Frenchman only once and even then it had been briefly, but for as far as he remembered, Francis had a suave and pleasant behaviour.

Gilbert snorted, crossing his arms. "Well, yeah, but you should have seen them in the beginning."

Ivan smiled. "I'd rather see them in the _end_."

xXx

After two first days of Arthur's departure, Francis had soon noticed that Paris, as wonderful city it was, was not quite... enough without the little Englishman there. Francis had realised the streets to be full of people he wasn't even interested in, and his house to be a little too empty. Waking up in the morning and knowing Arthur was miles away wasn't as pleasant as waking up to see the Englishman's green eyes and the familiar sneer. Francis had found that cooking breakfast for one was not the same thing as cooking it for two. Eating alone was not as enjoyable as when there was Arthur to share the fine food with him.

Which was the reason why, three days after Arthur's departure from Paris, Francis had found himself in London, standing in front of the Englishman's door, holding a bouquet of crimson roses in his left hand while reaching to knock the door with the right one.

And damn, seeing Arthur's eyes lighting up in pleasant surprise when he had seen who was at the door had even been worth the near-to-death experience Francis had had when the door had been opened – not by Arthur but a young, pretty and very creepy lady, who had looked like wanting to stab the Frenchman right then and there. She had even had equipment for that: three silvery knives in both of her hands.

But it had been worth it. Even though later, when Francis had entered the apartment and Natalia, the scary girl, had gone away, Arthur had almost managed to mask how pleased he was for the Frenchman's visit. _Almost_, because the Englishman couldn't fool Francis about that; it seemed that during the couple of weeks the two rivals had spent together, Francis had almost unconsciously developed to be better in mastering the art that was reading Arthur.

The thought made Francis smile contentedly. He was comfortably half lying on the sofa in Arthur's forest-like living room, watching the Englishman drinking his tea beside him. The atmosphere was cosy and pleasant – and yet there was a strained edge in it, something bubbling under the calm surface.

Arthur put his still half-full cup on the small wooden table before him, crossed his arms across his slender chest and threw a glare at the Frenchman. "What are you staring at?" His green eyes were demanding, yet lacking any anger or irritation. "Stop smiling so suspiciously."

Francis laughed. Arthur always made him laugh with his comments. "Suspiciously?"

"As you heard."

Francis reached to ruffle the Englishman's sandy hair. "Why, it's just so interesting how you clearly belong into your apartment. You are like a little pixie in the forest," he mumbled dreamily.

"Shows how much you know about pixies," Arthur snorted. "Stop that," he added, shaking his head as Francis didn't draw his hand back.

Ignoring the last demand, Francis arched his eyebrow. "Does it mean _you_ know much about them?" he asked almost mockingly.

Arthur gave him a considering look from behind the messy hair that was currently covering his eyes. He really looked like belonging into the forest, Francis thought vaguely. The thought appeared somewhat enchanting to him.

"Do I know much about them?" A mysterious smirk appeared on Arthur's lips. "More than you could ever imagine."

"Now, really?" Francis chuckled, teasingly pulling at one strand of the Englishman's hair. For some reason he had an urge to be somehow fumbling Arthur all the time, touch him and earn a reaction from him.

Arthur swatted his hand away. "I told you to stop that!"

"Don't be such a killjoy."

"Would you like me pulling _your_ hair?"

"Depends~"

Arthur grabbed a handful of Francis' golden locks and _pulled, _none too gently. "Like this?" he asked, grinning wildly.

"Ow!" Francis winced, grabbing Arthur's wrist to make him let go. "Not like that..." He grinned suddenly mischievously and leant in close to Arthur, so close their noses almost touched, and ran his free hand through the Englishman's hair, curling short strands around his fingers and and pulling just slightly, gently and teasingly sensually. "I'd prefer it like this, Arthur," he purred seductively into the smaller blonde's ear.

The way Arthur's face turned bright red was absolutely... _appetising_. It was so hard not to bite the blushing ear and then lick it softly, lick all the way from the ear to the perfect neck and down the slim chest, lick and kiss and bite, _taste_... Claim those delicious lips, and have all of him, _all of him._ Until there wouldn't any part of his body that Francis had not felt and tasted, nothing that didn't belong to him.

And Arthur knew. Francis could see it in his emerald eyes, hear it in his quickening breath and read it of the way Arthur didn't try to free his captured wrist and push him away. No, Arthur knew, and he wanted, too.

_You are mine,_ Francis wanted to say, to whisper into Arthur's ear, but he didn't. He didn't, because it wasn't enough that Arthur knew. Arthur had to beg. He had to be wanting and needy and desperate, and Francis wanted him to know that he was Francis' only, at his mercy.

So, the Frenchman pulled away instead, letting go of the Englishman. "Try it?" he asked playfully, meaning the way to pull hair.

Arthur looked away, visibly aware of his flushed cheeks. "You wish."

"I do."

"Bloody wanker."

"Your tea has gone cold."

Arthur uttered a breathy curse and picked his cup, quickly gulping the now cold liquid down. Francis watched him again, the same sly smile returning to his lips. "Would you like to go eat somewhere?"

"Why not." Arthur said but then frowned slightly. " Though I have already prepared the ingredients for tonight's dinner."

Francis grinned. What could possibly be better than having Arthur dressed in an apron, preparing them dinner? "That sounds a very good idea, Arthur," he cooed, his voice pure velvet. "I'd _love_ to see you cooking."

Famous last words.

One hour later Francis was ready to do anything to take back his previous words. He had no idea what Arthur had _intended_ to cook, he only knew that whatever it was, the mixture the Englishman was working on with resembled nothing that could be even considered as a dish. Besides, if burning the...the mixture wasn't required in the receipt, it was spoiled anyway. Which was only a good thing.

"Arthur," Francis said slowly. "How about eating out tonight?"

"Nonsense! The burned part can be removed," the Englishman objected, the stubborn little thing. "Besides, I just recently ate out."

Francis dragged him out of the kitchen and went to open a window in the living room. "It's a wonder you don't eat out very day," he said, rolling his eyes. "I wonder if eating out with you would ruin other people's taste, too."

"Git," Arthur snorted. "As if; we had a good time."

"We?" Francis asked curiously. "Were you with Gilbert?"

Arthur shrugged, walking back to the kitchen, intending to clean the mess there. "Well, I met him by accident. Originally I was supposed to eat just with Kiku."

The indifferently uttered words struck Francis unpleasantly. "Kiku?" he confirmed, feeling a pang of...jealousy? "That Japanese from the ball back then?" _The one with a crush on you?_

"Oh, you remember him." Arthur frowned. "Yes, him. He had something important to tell me, but I think Gilbert kind of ruined that."

Francis felt unpleasant feelings starting to churn in the pit of his stomach. He remembered the longing look in the Japanese's eyes when he had looked at the Englishman in the ball, and knowing that, it wasn't too hard to imagine what his 'something important' could be. Francis sent a quick thanks to heaven for Gilbert's ability ruin things.

"Oh well, he had promised to send me a letter about it later." Arthur shrugged again, talking to himself. Francis snorted lightly, Arthur probably had no clue what that Japanese wanted to talk him about.

"Well, if you are willing to eat whatever you just made, please do so," the Frenchman uttered, giving Arthur a smirk. "I think I need a break from you; I don't want your horrible taste to influence me."

Arthur's jaw dropped. "Wha-" Francis saw him snapping his mouth shut, face turning expressionless and lips forming a straight line. When he spoke, there was a sharp edge in his voice. "Then why the hell did you even bother coming all the way here instead of enjoying your break from me?"

Francis felt oddly satisfied about the Englishman's growing anger. It was something that reflected his own irritation about that damned Japanese. "Do they not say," he stated arrogantly, "that friends have to be kept close, but enemies even closer?"

Several expressions ran through Arthur's face, too fast for Francis to identify them. "Of course," the Englishman said coldly. "Now, if you please, I have some work to do."

Francis smirked. "I would never want to disturb you," he said almost mockingly, getting to the Englishman's door. "Anyway, I'll be picking you up at seven tomorrow evening."

"What?"

"To go and have a dinner somewhere. You'll probably be starving by then if you decide to live on your own cooking," Francis explained airily, seeing the Englishman's anger melt into confusion. He smiled; after all, he didn't want to part leaving Arthur mad at him, did he? "To keep an eye on you, naturally," he added opening the door and winking.

He smiled as he saw a small smile tugging on the Englishman's lips.

"Naturally."

"See you tomorrow then, _mon cher ennemi_," Francis purred before closing the door after himself.

X

"_I'd rather be a failure at something I love than a success at something I hate."_

_-C. S. Lewis_

AN: Guys, if I my notes go down at school, I'll blame you. 3

Thanks for your patience with slow updates. ^_^


	10. Chapter 10

**The night of the hunter**

**Chapter ten**

"Good morning, miss Braginsky."

Natalia glared.

"Perhaps you remember me. My name is Edelstein, I work in the same company as mister Kirkland."

Natalia glared. But this time the man didn't stir; he merely fixed the glasses on his nose.

"Hm. Well, anyway. There are some important papers Mr. Kirkland promised to deliver me, but lately I haven't been able to reach him. So, I was wondering if you, miss, could get me those papers. Since you are working for him."

"No." Did the man think she was completely stupid?

"Of course I never considered bothering you for free." The man took a small, silvery knife out of his pocket. "Please accept this as a refund for your efforts."

Natalia glared. She remembered perfectly well what her dear brother had said about suspicious offers such this one. And he had told her to always stay loyal. "No."

"In that case," the man said slowly, "if I tell you where Gilbert Beilschmidt, the man who your brother likes to spend time with, lives, will you get me what I want?"

xXx

Half past four.

Arthur glared at the offending clock. He should check if it was broken; for sure it was being slow. Because Arthur was sure it had been at least half an hour since he had last checked the time, not ten minutes like the stupid clock insisted.

Well. He could as well arrange his messy desk; he still had more that two hours before Francis would come.

Arthur sighed, idly following the patterns in his wooden desk with his finger. It was the break week, and he was going to have dinner with Francis. Out, in a restaurant. It wasn't part of the game... Then what exactly was it for?

Oh yes, the papers. He had to arrange the papers.

And yet, the game would end in only two weeks. Arthur had got hardly any names to his list in Paris, not mentioning addresses. The game hadn't actually even been in his mind that much.

For some ridiculous and unlikely odd reason, Francis had.

The papers. _Focus a little, Arthur!_

Arthur groaned, slumping down at his desk, and buried his head in his arms._ This is madness..._

Ticking of the clock was driving the Englishman to the edges of his sanity. He had nothing particular to do until the time Francis would get him, and so he had to spend his time doing a little this and a bit of that, and all in all, he got nothing done. Once a knock on his door interrupted his dawdling, but it had only been Natalia, coming to finish the cleaning that Francis had interrupted the previous day. Arthur was too busy with pretending he wasn't disappointed at all when the comer hadn't been Francis to be displeased with the fact that he would have to pay the Russian girl some extra for coming on two days in a row.

Finally Arthur got frustrated with himself and grabbed a random book from his bookshelf and settled down on his sofa. Books and tea; all he needed to calm down. Though now, for once, he didn't feel like making tea.

Arthur glanced at the book cover and frowned; _Pride And Prejudice_. That particular Jane Austen's novel was not quite what Arthur would have liked to read that moment, but already being comfortably on his sofa, he could as well go through the novel for the second time. Just to kill time.

Arthur had just got to the page 76, when he heard a knock on his door. The Englishman frowned; did Francis really have to appear right when Elisabeth was having an interesting debate with Mr. Darcy? Almost calling Natalia to open the door, Arthur remembered that the girl had left already left some time ago, and got up, sighing and tossing the book on the table.

"What took you so- Good evening, sir." Arthur's tone changed in a fraction of a second as he realised that the puzzled man standing behind his door was not the French wanker, but, judging of his outfit, a post officer.

"Good evening, sir. I'm sorry, sir," the young man, almost just a boy, stuttered, handing a white envelope to the Englishman. "This is for mister Arthur Kirkland."

"Oh," Arthur said. "I am him. Thank you." He took the envelope and after telling goodbyes, closed the door. He examined the envelope and noted that the handwriting was small and neat, the letters being precisely in one line. Arthur took a look at the sender; Kiku Honda.

"I had almost forgotten about his..." he muttered to himself, walking back to his living room fully intending to read the letter right away. But again, before he got to open the envelop, he was interrupted by someone at his door again.

A quick glance at the clock revealed that it was five past seven. Arthur threw the letter on the table beside the book and walked to the door. This time it had to be Francis.

"You are late," he uttered, pushing the door open and trying to appear as indifferent as possible, as if his heartbeat hadn't just quickened.

Francis arched his eyebrow and gave a sly smile. "That's only because you keep me waiting," he said slowly, reaching out and bringing the Englishman's hand to his lips, giving it a chaste kiss without breaking the eye-contact.

His words wimpled into Arthur's mind, suggesting various implications. The Englishman shook his head slightly and yanked his hand away. "Let's get going, then." He grabbed his coat and stepped out, locking the door behind him. "I suppose you have made a reservation somewhere?"

"I have," the Frenchman said, pursing his nose. "It wasn't easy to find a suitable place. We should spend this week in Paris instead. At least we would get edible food."

"And I thought that you wanted to have a break from me," Arthur said just the tiniest bit bitingly.

"_Oui_." Francis gave him a coy smile, leading him to a carriage waiting for them. "From the game. So, for now, we don't have to be playing anymore."

"And yet you are doing so," Arthur muttered barely audibly while climbing into the carriage. It was true; Francis was always playing with his words and tones and little gestures that could either mean something or be simple nothings. He always left the Englishman unsure of what he really meant, the bloody git.

"_Excusez-moi_?" Francis took the seat opposite to Arthur's.

"Nothing."

"Aren't you being mysterious again."

"Me?" Arthur uttered a laughter. "Now look who's talking!"

"Do you find me mysterious?"

"Only ridiculously difficult to understand."

Francis gave him a slow smile. "Perhaps we should both be more open with each other, then."

Little bells in Arthur's mind instantly belted out a loud alarm. _Water is getting too deep here, dive now and you'll never find the surface again_, they warned, to which Arthur just huffed and took the step into the depths._ Shut up; maybe I don't even want to._ "Very well," he said haughtily to Francis. "Then you start."

Francis blinked at him in confusion. "Start what?"

"Being more open."

For a little moment Arthur spotted an odd gleam in the Frenchman's eyes, but then it was gone, like a ray of light disappearing into deep waters.

"We are here," Francis said after a pause, and true enough; the carriage stopped. The Frenchman got up and opened the door, jumping out on the pavement. He then turned around and extended his arm for Arthur.

"Already?" Arthur frowned at the offered hand but not wanting to make a show in public, took it and let himself be helped out. "We could have walked here."

The Frenchman shrugged and led them into the restaurant. It was a nice place, small and pleasant, just to the Englishman's liking; in fact he had been dining there more than once during the past autumn. The table Francis had booked was at the window and with few people near it, which Arthur was glad for.

A waiter was instantly inquiring their wishes for the dinner and Arthur felt contented to be able to order himself, instead Francis doing it to him like in Paris.

As the waiter was gone, the Englishman propped his chin on his hands and stared at the Frenchman. "Well?"

Blue eyes blinked at him innocently (just as innocently as they could). "_Quoi_?"

"Don't even try wiggling your way out of this, frog," Arthur warned, smirking. "You started with being open, so take it to the end."

The Frenchman chuckled in response and shook his head. "You are a stubborn one." He leant back on his seat and looked at the Englishman with amused face. "What do you want to know?"

It was Arthur's turn look innocent. "Nothing particular."

"Now really?"

"What reasons you have to go around kissing people?"

Francis was visibly surprised to hear such a question, and truth be told, so was the Englishman himself. As he realised what he had blurted, he could have smacked himself. Why the hell had he said that? Alright, so what if he wanted to know why why Francis had kissed that bloody woman back in Paris, but letting out such words was too idiotic for his own good.

Francis recovered from his awe. "Such as who?" he asked.

Arthur shrugged and fixed his eyes on the waiter that was approaching them with their food. "Whoever."

"Mmm," the Frenchman mused, letting the waiter place their dishes in front of them and took the brought bottle of red wine, pouring some first to Arthur, then to himself. "Interesting question. But there is no specific answer; for different people I have different reasons." He arched his eyebrow at the Englishman. "Why?"

"Just... Just." As if that had even been an answer!

"Now it's my turn," Francis hummed, smiling at Arthur. He sipped his wine and for a while he just sat there in silence, gazing at the Englishman. Arthur found that rather unnerving and focused on his food rather than the man before him. The longer Francis kept silently staring at him, the less the Englishman tasted his food.

Finally the Frenchman broke the straining silence. "Why do you like wine, Arthur?"

For a few seconds Arthur just stared at him blankly. "What the hell?"

"Just answer the question."

Not getting the point of the question, the Englishman shrugged. "I don't know. Just because. The taste?"

"That's not a proper answer, _mon anglais._"

"You didn't answer me properly, either!"

Francis gave him another odd look and Arthur cursed his tongue . "Why do _you_ like wine, then?" he asked to distract the Frenchman from his previous words.

"Me?" Francis beamed at him. "Obviously because it's the drink of love."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Don't make such face. Taste it!"

Arthur rolled his eyes again but obeyed, taking his own glass and sipping the wine. "Ordinary wine," he commented.

"_Ordinary_," Francis scowled in disapproval. "This is from my farm."

Right, the best part of Francis: his wine farm. "Well that explains the weird taste."

"That's love!"

"I beg to differ."

Francis frowned, which didn't decrease his elegance one bit. "You think it's weird because you are unfamiliar with it. Am I right, Arthur?"

Arthur could feel his face starting to heat up. What was that frog implying? "What the fuck-"

The rest of the sentence died on his lips as he was the ocean-blue eyes darkening and getting a predatory tinge. Suddenly Francis seemed to... just burst into dark flames.

"Love, Arthur," he said frantically, staring intensely into the Englishman's eyes. "Have you ever been in love?"

"T-that's none of-"

Francis practically jumped to his feet, and, before Arthur could blink an eye, appeared behind the Englishman's chair, placing hands on its armrests. "Have you ever experienced it?" he continued passionately, and Arthur felt his breath in his hair. "Seeing only _one_ face wherever you look. Imagining only _one_ body no matter how many other surround you. Drowning in only _that_ _one_ person's eyes whenever they look at you."

Francis' voice was low and husky, leaking passion, and Arthur was more than aware of the Frenchman behind him. He was almost startled at the sudden change in the atmosphere, at the change in Francis, and was too shocked to react when skilled hands travelled to his shoulders and lips almost brushed his ear. So he just sat still, feeling blood rushing in his veins, heading to his face, and heart beating furiously.

"Yearning for only _his_ touch, no one else's..." Francis whispered into his ear and the Englishman shuddered under his hands. He gasped as the Frenchman grabbed his chin and lifted his face up so that they were now looking at each other. Eyes widening, Arthur could do nothing but stare into the deep, deep blue eyes and his breath hitched as they lowered closer to him.

"Have you ever felt it," Francis continued, voice low and alluring, "that burning love inside you? Burning so much it almost hurts. Draining you, driving you crazy every day and hour, killing you every passing second over and over again."

Francis' hand that wasn't holding Arthur's chin slid down along his arm to his hand that was resting on the table, and grasped it. With a fierce movement he yanked the Englishman up and pulled him close to himself, chest to back, still holding his hand firmly. "And yet," He brought Arthur's hand to his lips, but instead of touching it he merely let his breath caress the knuckles. "it burns so pleasantly. The burning, sweet passion warms you inside. Gives you strength, brings you joy over every tiniest thing." Francis' hand slid down Arthur's side to his waist and pulled the Englishman as closed to himself as possible. Arthur forgot how to breath as the Frenchman's lips pressed right under his ear. "You are almost walking in the air," he whispered against his skin. "And your mind is constantly drifting away. To _him_."

And then, just as suddenly as he had started, Francis released Arthur and pulled away from him. Turning to face him, Arthur feared his knees would give in as he met the intense stare of the blue eyes again, and tried to capture his fastened breath. After what felt like eternity Francis turned around and took his own seat again. Arthur followed his example and and sat down, too, taking quite a big gulp of his wine – he certainly needed it. As he placed the glass back on the table, he noted Francis giving him a satisfied, questioning look. "Well?"

"That's..." Arthur cleared his throat. "That's only romantic nonsense. That's-"

"Love," Francis cut in.

"No, it's simply-"

"_Love_."

"Will you stop doing that?" Arthur snapped and the Frenchman laughed.

"Considering your words, you haven't experienced it," he said, lifting his own glass to his lips.

"Then..." Arthur found his almost empty plate very fascinating at the moment. "Have _you_ ever experienced it?" Despite the wine he had just drank, Arthur's mouth felt as dry as the hottest desert.

Francis chuckled and took a sip. "Never like thi-" Arthur's eyes widened. What... had Francis said? Ignoring the sound of the Frenchman chocking on his wine, the Englishman kept his eyes on the plate. Had he just heard right? The coughing in the Frenchman's direction died. "_-that._ I've never experienced it like that."

But the damage was already done.

"I see," Arthur said quietly, not having enough courage to look at the Frenchman. He was afraid that he would see his own reflection in the blue eyes and that was something he couldn't deal with right then. _Never like this_. His heartbeat increased with terrifying speed. _And... What about me?_

As if he didn't know. And that was why he couldn't face himself at the moment.

_But had Francis mean what he had said?_

To prevent himself from saying anything stupid again, Arthur gulped down the rest of the wine in his glass. But that only reminded him of the Frenchman's statement about the wine and where it had lead to, and he the Englishman fumbled with the glass, nearly dropping it.

"Are you okay?" Francis asked, poorly suppressed amusement in his voice, and suddenly burst to laughter. "My," he managed to say as Arthur shot a deadly glare at him, "Are you drunk already?"

"I am not," Arthur announced matronly and for once truthfully, patting his lips with a napkin and noting in relief that the tension in him seemed to have let up as the Frenchman had laughed. "Are you done with your food?"

"What food?" Francis snorted but nodded. "_Oui_. Shall we get going?"

After paying their bill, the two men got out on the street. It was late already, the sky was dark and the air was cold; autumn nights showed no mercy. But the wind was pleasantly fresh and it felt good against hot, flushed face. Arthur inhaled slowly and deeply before turning to the other blonde beside him. "Let's walk back home; I don't want to take a carriage now."

A playful smile crept on the Frenchman's lips. "Are you inviting me to your home?"

Arthur hadn't even given it a second thought. Especially in Paris they had always returned home together, and somehow the Englishman had automatically expected them to do so now, too. He opened his mouth, but closed it again and merely shrugged. "Yes."

The smirk on Francis' lips melted into a warm smile and made Arthur's heart skip a beat. "With pleasure, then."

They walked in comfortable silence, enjoying the coolness of the air. Arthur breathed deep the scent of his city and the man walking beside him, and sighed contentedly. How did that moment feel so good? Right then, Arthur couldn't wish for more. Except... He gave a quick, hopefully unnoticed glance at the Frenchman beside him. If only he knew what Francis was thinking...

They spoke hardly anything until they reached the Englishman's apartment and Arthur had let them in. Having taken off his coat, he headed straight to the kitchen, intending to make some precious, calming tea. Francis could make himself at home without his instructions.

Which was proved to be the truth. "_Pride And Prejudice_," Arthur heard Francis' amused voice from the living room. He walked to the door and leaned against the door frame, watching Francis comfortably positioned on his sofa with the said book in his hands. Arthur blinked. _You belong into your apartment,_ Francis had said him, but as the Englishman now watched his guest, he got a strong feeling that Francis belonged there, too...

"You were reading this?" the said man asked curiously. Arthur nodded. The Frenchman chuckled lightly and put the book back on the table. "_Comme c'est intéressant._" he said, and the Englishman scowled at the language.

The Frenchman's eyes fell upon the envelope beside the book. "Ah, you have a letter here," he announced.

"Oh, right." Arthur left his place at the door frame, figuring that water could perfectly well boil without him standing there. "I had forgotten about that." He walked to the table and took the letter. "Do you mind if I read it now?"

"Not at all."

Not sitting down, Arthur opened the envelope and unfolded the yellowish piece of paper inside it. "Let's see what Kiku wants," he muttered absently.

"Kiku?" The sharp tone in Francis' voice made Arthur look at him and he almost flinched at the sudden fierce look in dark blue eyes. "Yes, him," he said, frowning a little.

"Well, do read on then." Francis leaned back on the sofa, crossing his arms and examining the Englishman. "By all means."

Vaguely wondering what the hell had gotten into the Frenchman, Arthur did so, understanding the neat handwriting without problems.

Instead he had difficulties with understanding the _meaning_ of the words. "Oh my God," he finally barely whispered under his breath. Kiku was _confessing_ him? Telling he had developed feelings for _him_? _Kiku_, the distant Japanese of all people? And instantly a tiny but persistent voice started crooning deep inside his mind; why was it _Kiku_ who was confessing him?

"Oh, did he finally tell you?"

The venomous, mocking tone drew Arthur's attention back to the Frenchman. "What's with that tone?" he snapped, the other blonde's words suddenly provoking him.

"Just asking." Francis' tone was cold. "So, did he tell he loves you?"

"How the hell do you know?"

"Such a desperate crush would have been noticed even by a brainless idiot."

Irritation flamed inside the Englishman. That bloody frog was insulting both him and his friend, and even though he didn't return Kiku's feelings, Francis' attitude was pissing him off. "That is none of your fucking business, frog!" he spat angrily, glaring down at the Frenchman.

Apparently that wasn't to Francis' liking, as he stood up, too, forcing Arthur to look slightly up in order to look him in the eyes. He stepped slightly forward, but Arthur didn't back off, and they kept their eyes locked together in a wordless battle.

A high, unbelievably loud screech of the teapot in kitchen cut through the air, announcing the water to be boiling, and both men stirred, but neither of them made a move to go and get the pot off the stove. The noise covered the men's slight panting, and Arthur could tell that, just like his own, Francis blood was boiling in veins.

"What will you answer him?" The Frenchman's voice was low, dangerous, harsh, and the power of the fury in his eyes was stunning. _Thrilling_...

"That's to be between him and me," Arthur hissed in response, staring into the dark blue eyes, enchanted by their fierceness, enjoying their attention. God, how he loved the way those eyes surveyed him, as if attempting to dig deep into the very core of him.

"Would you really go to such a bland man?" Francis asked and Arthur was sure that sooner or later _something_ would snap under the tension.

If nothing else, _he_ would. His voice thick with hardly suppressed emotions, Arthur bit deep. "At least _he_ has guts to make a move at me."

The last drop fell.

Without a single word, Francis grabbed hard his shoulders and pushed him backwards, slamming him forcefully against the wall. Before Arthur could even breath a curse, the Frenchman grabbed his chin and all but smashed their mouths together, kissing him heatedly with lips and tongue and teeth.

Arthur's breath hitched and he saw only stars around him. For whole two seconds his mind couldn't proceed what was happening, but Francis' dark-passionate attack on his mouth shook the numbness away. Arthur growled, throwing his arms around the Frenchman's head and tangling his fingers in his long hair, kissing him back as forcefully as he could.

But Francis pulled away far too soon, almost instantly,pressing his lips tight against the Englishman's ear and speaking in a harsh, low voice. "Be careful what you say to men like me."

And then he was gone, turning his back and heading to the door of Arthur's apartment. Arthur clung to the wall, trying to catch his breath, but then he realised that the Frenchman was intending to leave.

_Oh no, no fucking chance in hell_. Without any proper thoughts, Arthur sprung forward and reached for the golden hair, grabbing a good handful of it. Growling, the Frenchman turned around and Arthur threw himself at him, attacking his mouth with his own. "Then you..." he muttered breathlessly into Francis' mouth, "be ca-areful what... what you do to men like m- memmh..."

He felt Francis hands roughly and possessively roaming around his body, earning wherever he touched small moans that Arthur tried to suppress.

"Arthur," Francis breathed between kisses. "Are you giving yourself to me?"

"And who were you calling a... a brainless idiot just a moment ago?" Arthur groaned and cursed; the stars in his vision made it hard to find the buttons on the Frenchman's shirt.

"Good," Francis murmured, laying kisses along Arthur's jawline and down to his neck, alternately sucking, biting and licking it. "_Enfin, enfin._" He might have said something else in French, too, but at that point Arthur didn't hear, care or understand it anyway. All he could focus on was getting as close to Francis as possible.

The still whistling teapot finally got their attention and Francis groaned, detaching himself from the Englishman and quickly stumbling into kitchen to put out the stove. When he returned back to the living room, Arthur could finally see his eyes again, his hungry eyes of a hunter.

As soon as the Frenchman set his foot into the living room, the two men were instantly at each other again, working on each other's clothes and trying to expose as much skin as possible and taste all of it. At some point they started moving towards Arthur's bedroom; either Arthur started pulling Francis there or Francis started pushing Arthur there, or perhaps both. It didn't matter.

Skin was hot against skin, touches were burning as deep as the very core of their souls. Moans and screams were cutting the darkness of the night, and soon everything disappeared into the mist of lust and want and need. Nothing more existed; only Francis, Arthur, and the night around them.

X

"_The road to hell is paved with good intentions."_


	11. Chapter 11

AN: Hello, everybody! Yes, I do know that it has been a while since I last updated. I'm sorry. (Actually, I really am.) Anyway, let me inform you that after this, there will be two chapters left, plus the epilogue. So, this story will have 14 chapters overall.

Okay, that was all I wanted to say. On to the story, enjoy! (P.S. I warned you that it's going to be cheesy.)

**The night of the hunter**

**Chapter eleven**

_Let it rain_

_let it wash away the dirt on you_

_let it ease your pain_

_let it wash away denial, lies_

_and reveal_

_what's underneath it all:_

_your love_

_your hearts eternal call_

A gentle voice from the past started singing a vaguely familiar song somewhere deep in Arthur's mind as the sound of raindrops hitting the window slowly, so sweetly slowly, carried him from dreams back to his consciousness. Not quite fully awake yet, Arthur didn't have the heart to open his eyes just yet as he listened to the calming battering of rain. It was comfortable and cosy just lying there between the covers, hearing the cold rain outside but feeling the warmth of another body against his back, the touch of the skilful fingers caressing his skin...

Slowly Arthur opened his eyes. The memory of what had happened the previous night spread out in his mind in all its glory, filling every bit of the Englishman's consciousness; the heat of the night, the lust, their naked, sweaty bodies entwined together – pure bliss. The more Arthur replayed the images before his eyes, the hotter he felt his face turning. Even if he hadn't know about the reputation Francis had in Paris, the previous night would have made it undoubtedly clear that the Frenchman was a very experienced lover. His touch was magical, there was no other word to describe it better or explain why it had had so great effect on Arthur.

Even at the moment the those fingers were working their talent; Arthur felt them idly brushing along his hip, tracing circles around the hip bone. A shiver ran through the Englishman's body, giving Francis a sign that he was awake.

"_Bonjour_, Arthur," he purred into his ear and kissed it gently before moving his lips lower on Arthur's neck.

Arthur closed his eyes, attempting to keep his breathing steady. _Fool_, he thought senselessly. _You stupid fool. What have you done?_ He wasn't really sure how to answer himself; last night he had acted without thinking, without paying attention to to reasons or consequences. But now it was morning and he was sharing his bed with the Frenchman, whom he was supposed to throughout beat in their games and whom he actually should loath. Yet, Arthur hadn't quite won his game to say the least, and what was swelling in his heart was many things but loath. Now, if ever, was time to think about the reasons and consequences.

Arthur sighed, the light breath somehow turning into a pleased 'mmm' at the feeling of the practised lips on his neck. Instantly regretting the quiet sound, Arthur struggled to keep his thoughts together – it was too easy to slip into the fake cosiness. No, he had to stay unaffected.

Consciousness? The game would go on like before. At least the common game between cities would . The game aiming for the Frenchman to fall before Arthur was pretty much over, due to what had happened the previous night. Perhaps it was a draw, or possible either one of the men had lost; the Englishman wasn't sure. That, however, would not affect the game, and thus didn't interest Arthur. What he truly wanted to know was, what would happen after the two weeks, when the game would officially come to the end.

Arthur squeezed his eyes closed more tightly, as if to isolate the touch on his skin from his mind – to no use. Somehow Francis' contiguity seemed to burn deeper than the mere surface. But something else was burned there, too: the Frenchman's words that he had uttered when they had first arrived to Paris. And as much as Arthur tried to ignore them, their message kept haunting him. Francis had made it perfectly clear that as soon as he got what he wanted from a person, he lost all his interest in them; it had been even proved at the masquerade the two men had attended in the damned 'City of Love'. And Arthur had gone and given the Frenchman what he had desired: a night with Arthur. So after the game, too, ended, would Francis see the Englishman worth to be continued pursuing?

Arthur's heart wrenched nastily at the possibility that Francis wouldn't.

Warm lips played on the Englishman's skin, leaving the neck and moving to his shoulder, and the hand on Arthur's hip massaged him soothingly. A small sigh escaped Arthur's lips again, and despite all his struggle, he unwillingly relaxed under the care of the Frenchman.

That was when Arthur felt teeth digging into his neck, as a contrast to the previous gentleness. The Englishman yelped and instinctively reached to slap the all too eager face. "What do you think you are doing?" he demanded, turning his head to see the other blonde.

The said blonde's lips instantly found Arthur's for a chaste kiss. "Why," Francis hummed innocently, "I'm simply enjoying my English breakfast."

Arthur snorted scornfully, looking into those sapphire eyes he felt a heavy lump forming in the pit of his stomach. Since when had Francis managed to sneak past his barriers? More importantly, how on earth had Arthur even let that happen to begin with, particularly in the circumstances the two men had met? It was more than he had planned in the beginning, more than he had wanted... If only it wasn't their game, their stupid game, perhaps _then_ they could become something more than mere rivals, but. There was always _but_.

"Git," Arthur muttered and pushed the Frenchman's face further. He had to stay strong now; all he could do at the moment was to take the game till the end, and then... Only time would show. He sat up in the bed, avoiding looking at the man so close to him, and quickly grabbed his morning gown to cover himself with. "Speaking of breakfast..."

Nearly as fast as a lightning, Francis cut short his luxurious stretching and jumped off the bed. "I'll take care of it!" he said hastily.

"Cover yourself!" Arthur snapped anxiously, not daring look back at the Frenchman. Body slightly sore due to the previous night, he got off his bed too, and after seeing all the clothes lying around his bedroom, fixed his eyes straight in front. "Nonsense. I'm perfectly capable of making breakfast myself, and you couldn't make tea right."

"Non, I'll prepare something," Francis kept insisting, hopefully getting dressed as Arthur made his way to the kitchen. "It's only fair; you make the tea, I prepare the breakfast."

After a rather silent half and hour both men were fully dressed and in the Englishman's kitchen, each doing their share; Arthur was filling his teapot with water while Francis went through the Englishman's shelves to find suitable ingredients. The atmosphere was, at least to Arthur, somewhat heavy and awkward. As soon as the two men had got out of the warm cosiness of the bed, the vague closeness they had shared seemed to have vanished. Because, seriously – what were you supposed to discuss with a man you basically hated and with whom you had just done something you never should have, which means sleeping with him the very previous night, and when now you were confused and unsure about the continuation of your odd complicated kind-of-relationship?

Oh. Probably that.

Arthur cleared his throat. He was standing with his back turned to the Frenchman, examining his teapot like he had never boiled water in it before. "So..."

"Hmm?"

"So," Arthur repeated and shifted his weight from one leg to another. "Well. I- Well, about the last night..."

"You seem somewhat nervous," he heard Francis chuckling behind him and instantly had his defences up. Well he damn well was nervous and he had a freaking good reason to be! Maybe Francis had dealt with numerous the-next-morning -scenes, but Arthur hadn't. He spun around to shoot a glare at the Frenchman, who laughed and uttered, "This is quite new for you, no?"

What was with that fucking smug tone? As if what they had just done was simply something to brag about afterwards. Though, Arthur thought bitterly, perhaps for Francis, it was. "Yeah, well, _I_ don't go around sleeping with anything that has two legs and a hole between them!" he snapped, not quite angry but his insecurity adding a sharp edge into his words.

He instantly regretted it as he saw a deep frown forming on the Frenchman's forehead. The blue eyes suddenly lost their light hue of the sky and appeared more like ice. Arthur opened his mouth to patch up his words before something irreversible would happen, but Francis was quicker.

"And what exactly do you mean by that, Arthur?" Francis voice was calm but cold, and Arthur could hear a tinge of suppressed anger in it. He stared at the other man, mouth going dry. He didn't wish for a fight, God knew he didn't, losing what they had already possibly reached together was the last thing the Englishman wanted. But there was the _but_ again. After the implied challenging tone in the Frenchman's voice, Arthur couldn't submit and back away anymore; his pride wouldn't allow it.

"I'm sure you know it yourself," he sneered arrogantly, hating the argument, the game and his damned pride; they all were things that stood between him and Francis, and yet he couldn't give up any of them.

"Arthur," Francis said warningly. "Cut it."

"Cut what, Francis?" the Englishman snapped in response. "My assumptions about why these kind of mornings are more familiar for you than for me?" He turned back to his teapot. "And I was simply suggesting for the reason to be that _I_ live a decent life."

"Enough!" Arthur spun around as he heard Francis slamming his both palms on the table, and met his furious eyes. "At least those other mornings I don't get insulted!"

"That's because people alike can't point out mistakes in each other."

"Do not speak as if you knew anything about it," Francis growled, clenching his fists in rage. "But thanks to you now I got some answers, too."

"Which are?"

"At least now I know," Francis said venomously, "why feelings described yesterday as well as waking up with someone in your bed are unfamiliar to you."

For a second Arthur just stared at him wordlessly. "How. _Dare_ you?" he hissed. Something in the Frenchman's anger frightened the Englishman, but his temper had taken a hold of him. No one, however justified their anger was, was to offend him in his own home! Just to prove himself that Francis' words hadn't hurt one bit, Arthur abandoned all regret he had about their fight.

"Why, just like you, I'm merely stating my opinions," Francis said coldly. "It is true that I have woken up with many people, and I have shared most pleasant mornings with them. It means that at least _I_," He made an emphasising pause, "have been loved. What about you, Arthur? Has anyone actually loved _you_ enough to die for you?"

Arthur froze. He opened his mouth, but couldn't form any words. _Yes_, he wanted to cry, _and that is nothing to be bloody happy about if they actually do so!_ "You-" he started, but got interrupted.

"Because death for you would only be a waste of a human life."

His vision flashing white for a moment, Arthur felt like he had been hit right between his eyes. The beautiful face of Elizaveta formed in his mind as if to prove the Frenchman's point, and Arthur felt cold fingers around his heart. As if he didn't know that her death had been just waste of a human life! He knew, but...

Somehow the fact that _Francis_ thought so too hurt more than Arthur had imagined being even possible.

"You would just love to rub it into my face, wouldn't you?" he uttered hoarsely, his voice as cold as ice in the Frenchman's eyes. "Now get out of my house."

Without a word Francis walked into the hall and grabbed his coat. Before opening the door he turned yet once more to Arthur and bowed so politely it was nothing but a mock. "I must thank you for the hospitality you British seem to be so proud of." With that, he opened the door and stepped out.

"Then I must thank you for the only services you French are capable of!" Arthur yelled after him, blindly grabbing the closest available object, which happened to be a teacup, and violently threw it at the closing door. The cup hit the wood, shattering into countless pieces. Arthur stared at the them for a while, hearing nothing but ticking of a clock in his suddenly so silent apartment, and lurched backwards. His back met the wall, and glad for its support he slid down on the floor. Mind going completely numb, Arthur continued staring at what used to be his teacup, and absently wondered if it was shards he was looking at, or his broken heart.

In the kitchen, the teapot broke into heart-rending whistling.

xXx

As if to laugh at Arthur's misery, the rainy autumn morning turned out to be so mockingly beautiful a day. Heavy clouds vanished by lunchtime and rays of sun peeked into the Englishman's apartment, painting the forest-like living room with pale sunlight.

Arthur, however, noticed none of that. Like a gnome living too far in the woods to be reached by sun, he remained where he had slumped after Francis had left. Sitting still, he was just gazing somewhere through the wooden door, at something only he could see. He felt no longer pain, only cold numbness that spread around his body and took over his mind.

When Arthur finally got on his feet, it was early evening already, nearly tea time. The Englishman inhaled shakily and rubbed his face with his palms. "So that was it," he muttered quietly and shook his head. "Time to move on."

The teapot was still on the stove, full of already cooled water. Arthur replaced the water with fresh and waited patiently at the stove as the water slowly started to heat up. In order to keep useless thoughts out if his mind, he focused on the teapot; the poor thing had already been neglected twice within twenty-four hours because of Francis, and it didn't deserve such treatment. So, this time when the pot started whistling, Arthur made sure to take it off the stove immediately.

With a cup of rich, black tea he walked back into his living room, but the shards at his front door captured his eyes instead. Arthur placed his tea on the table and went to the sad remains of what once used to be a beautiful tea cup. Dropping on his knees, the Englishman started collecting them one by one on his palm. As the pile of glass filled his palm, he closed his hand around them to prevent them falling, but before he could stand up and throw the shrapnel away, he felt one of them slightly scratching the soft skin. It didn't hurt. Arthur gazed at his fist, vague curiosity waking in his misty mind. Wanting to find the point where he would feel something, he carefully clutched the shards more tightly.

"Ah," he breathed, oddly satisfied as sharp pieces pierced the skin of his left palm. "Now it hurts..."

A blood drop fell on the floor to accompany the smallest remaining shards on the floor, and Arthur smiled despite the growing pain in his hand as he continued clenching the shrapnel. He smiled, because physical pain was easier to endure than the one in his heart.

xXx

The next morning Arthur was greeted by torrential downpour. He glanced outside, closed his eyes again and turning his back to the window, continued to sleep.

It was nearly noon already when the Englishman finally got out of his bed. The rain had decreased to a mere drizzle, but somehow it was even worse than the downpour. Not that it mattered in the end; Arthur wasn't planning going out that day. He would stay home and finish the paperwork that had to be done for the company, and Kiku's letter was yet to be replied.

But Arthur's plans changed before he even got to finish his breakfast (or early lunch, one could say); he received a note from his associates, being asked to attend an extra meeting as soon as possible. That was how the Englishman ended up standing before the four men he had found their company with, his jaw dropped in disbelief and fists clenched.

The four pairs of eyes faced him silently, waiting for a response. Arthur blankly stared back at them before the disbelief turned into anger. "I beg your pardon?" he he said, voice dangerously calm.

Mr. Shireman, who had somehow during the two years become the chairman of the company, didn't get startled by the young man's anger. He met Arthur's bright green eyes and repeated what he had said a moment ago, "We have a reason to suspect that you, Mr. Kirkland, have deceived us in the most unacceptable manner. It has occurred that you have sold vital details about our company to a known wine producer."

"I would be glad to know what justifies such suspicions." Arthur struggled to keep his voice even, but he couldn't help it rising towards the end. "I'm one of the bloody owners! I'd very much like to hear the reason why I would want to ruin my sustenance."

"The reason _why_ is indeed beyond us, Mr. Kirkland," Shireman said coldly, never losing his cool façade. "But the said wine producer himself met one of us yesterday and revealed everything."

Arthur didn't know what to say. "What the fuck?"

"Indeed," Mr. Williams, a large man with quite an impressive moustache, scoffed. "We couldn't believe you sank so low as to fraternise with a Frenchman, Kirkland."

"A Frenchman?"

"Though not anymore, it seems," Mr. Edelstein commented in ever so emotionless way. "He gave you away."

"How typical of them."

"Back to the topic, gentlemen."

Arthur stared at the other men, astonished. "Never once have I made any contracts with Frenchmen!" he spat.

"And yet he gave us the documents to prove his point."

"Who?"

Mr. Shireman tilted his head and surveyed Arthur thoughtfully. "We are talking about Mr. Bonnefoy."

Arthur froze in shock, staring at his associates. What the hell? Had Francis really gone and fucking _lied_ to the day they had had their... disagreement? It was too surreal to be true; would _he_ really betray anyone like that? The Frenchman wasn't that type. The Englishman shook his head. No, it wasn't possible... Francis was a shitty bastard among other things, but even he wouldn't go that low, not although he appeared to hate Arthur in the end.

"That's a lie," he protested.

"Mr. Edelstein."

Roderich opened the drawers in the desk and took several papers out of there, handing them to Mr. Shireman. "Then explain us these," the chairman urged, slamming the papers on the desk.

Slowly, like in a dream, Arthur reached for them and flipped through the documents, puzzled. There was no denying it; those papers really were those entrusted him, those containing important information about their company.

There was no fucking way...

"Do you decline that those documents are the ones supposed to be kept safe by you?"

Arthur said nothing; he simply stared at the papers in his hands.

"Do you realise, Mr. Kirkland, that whether or not the accusations against you are correct, you have already betrayed our trust by letting those documents fall into hands of outsiders?"

Arthur raised his eyes at the four blaming faces in front of him.

xXx

_Let it rain,_

_let it wash away the dirt on you_

_let it ease your pain_

_let it wash away denial, lies_

_and reveal_

_what's underneath it all-_

Arthur stopped in front of his front door and looked up at the grey sky. His left hand was throbbing dully and he was all soaked. It was raining.

Oh, and perhaps he was just the tiniest bit hurt, too. And jobless.

Arthur got inside and oriented straight into his kitchen, not even bothering change his wet clothes. If he didn't get a cup of soothing black tea _right then_ he would just freak out.

Not caring about ruining his sofa with his wet clothes, Arthur slumped on it with his precious tea. "Let's look at it rationally," he muttered to himself. Hadn't he been efficient; in two days he had lost both his job and Francis, and he would be lucky if his associates didn't sue him.

"How did it come to all this..?"

Someone started banging his door, but Arthur didn't even stir.

"Arthur!" a furious voice of Gilbert yelled through his door. "Open the door fucking _now_!"

Arthur sighed and got up. If he didn't let the Prussian in, the persistent man would most likely continue making noises and get Arthur kicked out of his apartment, too, and wouldn't that just complete the series.

"Arthur! Open! Now!"

"I'm coming you fucking Prussian ass!"

"Arthur!" Gilbert all but spat at Arthur as soon as he got the door open. "What the hell is this?"

Arthur walked back to his sofa and the waiting tea. It seemed to be the only thing keeping him sane at the moment. "I do not know what you are talking about," he said coolly and sipped his tea.

"Stop pretending!" The silver-haired man stamped after him, not bothering taking off his wet, muddy boots. Not that Arthur really cared himself. "I'm talking about you and Francis!"

So he had been right; as soon as the physical pain decreased, the pain deep inside started to bloom. "There is nothing to talk about 'me and Francis'."

Gilbert stood before the Englishman, looking down at him, his cousin and his friend. "Seriously, Art- Hey! What happened to your hand? And you are all soaked!"

"So are you." Arthur kept his eyes on tea. "And this was an accident," he added nonchalantly nodding at his hand.

Gilbert tsk-ed but didn't say anything to that. He snorted, then changed to a somewhat softer tone. "But seriously, what happened to you two? I met Francis – both of you behave like you couldn't stand each other!"

Arthur shrugged. "We do," he said unequivocally.

"But..." Gilbert's voice got almost uncharacteristically quiet, almost pleading. "But I thought that you two got along so well..."

"Well, it was foolish to think something like that, wasn't it?" Arthur commented, staring at his reflection in the reddish liquid. A pair of desperate eyes looked back at him. Suddenly something dropped into the cup, ruining the reflection. Arthur blinked, surprised, and wiped his eyes with his damaged hand. When had those tears gathered there? His vision rapidly blurring, Arthur placed his tea on the table and covered his face with his hands, not being able to suffocate a lonely sob that broke free, soon followed by others alike.

"How foolish it was to think something like that..." The words came out as a chocked whisper. "But... I thought so too." Uttering a bitter laughter, Arthur shook his head. "Wasn't it stupid of me?"

For once Gilbert remained silent; he simply sat down beside the Englishman and tapped his back gently. "You are totally wasted, buddy," he said in a friendly way. "Hopelessly in love."

X

"_No man can lose what he never had."_

_-Izaak Walton_


	12. Chapter 12

**The night of the hunter**

**Chapter twelve**

Silence stretched between two men. Francis shifted slightly uncomfortably; the cool presence of the other man made him feel just the tiniest bit anxious, now that Gilbert was gone. Francis glanced at the clock; what took the Prussian so long? And where had he even gone? He had just strode off without an extra word, leaving his guests to amuse themselves in his apartment.

The ticking of the clock and rain battering the windows were the only sounds that were heard in the room, and Francis started drumming the armrest of the sofa with his fingers. If someone didn't say anything soon, he would lose his mind under the calm survey of the Russian on the opposite sofa.

Francis gave a small cough. "Do you think Gilbert will be back soon?"

"No," Ivan said.

Francis blinked. "No? Did he just leave like that, without a word, not even planning to come back any time soon?"

"So it seems."

The Frenchman frowned, then shook his head and sighed. "So very typical of him," he sneered. "Where do you think he took off?"

Ivan shrugged. "Probably to see that Englishman of yours," he said with a smile. "Didn't you see his face?"

To see Arthur? Francis rubbed his temples tiredly. "Are you sure?"

The violet eyes fixed on him. "Are you implying that I'm a liar?"

"No!" Francis shuddered inwardly. It was a wonder how Gilbert was still alive, being together with this man.

"Good."

Neither of the men spoke after that and Francis looked out at the rain. It was the second day after his fight with Arthur, and it was unbelievable how much he missed the blond Englishman already. He had woken up beside Arthur only once, but it had felt so right and intimate that it was obviously meant to be that way – instead of waking up alone in the cold sheets of some filthy hotel. But, Francis sighed, it couldn't really be helped.

Not liking the hollow feeling within him, Francis focused his thoughts on something else – his lunch. If Gilbert went to Arthur's, he wouldn't probably be back any time soon, which meant that lunch at the Prussian's place was excluded of options. Francis refused even the possibility of eating alone with Ivan. Not that there was anything wrong with Ivan, he just wasn't the kind of company Francis would enjoy at the moment.

"That was a nasty thing to say."

Francis flinched, momentarily fearing that the Russian had read his mind, but looking into those violet eyes, the Frenchman knew what Ivan meant. He sighed again, this time heavily. "I know..." The image of Arthur's incredibly green, hurt eyes pictured before the Frenchman's eyes. "I know."

"Then why did you say so?" Ivan's voice was emotionless; it wasn't angry or blaming – perhaps only slightly curious.

Francis shrugged. "I was angry. I guess I somehow wanted to hurt him, too." It was actually surprisingly easy to talk to Ivan, perhaps because the Russian didn't really care that much. He didn't judge, at least not openly.

Ivan nodded. "I understand," he said, and Francis was sure he did.

"Well, I think I'll take my leave now. The lunch time has started in my hotel," Francis said after a small, comfortably understanding silence, and Ivan nodded again.

Francis was glad for his umbrella as the rain showed no signs of decreasing. He walked aimlessly to the opposite direction from his hotel, not really wanting to go there yet despite his words to Ivan. What would he do in his room alone, anyway? Rainy or not, at least the city of London provided him more than a square surrounded by four walls.

Or then Francis could go to Arthur and try to talk with him. Though the problem was that he _couldn't_. He couldn't just march into Arthur's apartment and announce, _Hey, we need to talk,_ or, _Look, I'm very sorry about the yesterday, I didn't mean what I said_, or, _Let's end this game separating us and share our lives with one another. I love you_. All those things were true, but then again, Francis wasn't the only one who was wrong, and it had actually been Arthur who had freaked out over nothing and started the whole fight... hadn't he? Francis couldn't quite remember.

A particularly strong gust of wind caught the Frenchman's umbrella and tried to tear it from his hold. Cold autumn rain instantly attacked his face before he got the rebelling umbrella back in order. The streets were nearly empty from pedestrians, who all seemed to hurry somewhere dry, and there weren't even as many carriages as there usually were. It seemed that everybody just wanted to stay home during such beastly weather.

Francis didn't mind the emptiness of the cityscape, even though he usually preferred more lively city-life. But that time he needed some space around him to wallow in his thoughts; crowd would only annoy him. Walking on the wet pavement and avoiding puddles, the Frenchman's thoughts were full of Arthur. Francis wasn't angry anymore – only frustrated.

What had it even been that had infuriated the Englishman so? Francis tried recalling their exchange of words, but in his opinion, as much as he remembered, he hadn't said anything that could have made Arthur angry. Actually, it was him who had the right to be angry – Arthur had practically accused him of being a whore or alike.

Francis stopped. There was a particularly huge puddle that covered the whole pavement in front of him, but it wasn't what had made the Frenchman stop. It was a new possibility that started forming in his mind.

What if Arthur had acted like he had not to offend (at first), but because he was jealous or something?Francis frowned. That was a considerable option, too. Perhaps Arthur thought that he was nothing but a mere fling for one night. When Francis looked back at his history from Arthur's point of view, it really did appear slightly precarious; Francis had more one-night stands that no one bothered to count, with both men and women. From someone else's standpoint that didn't really give the impression of Francis being willing for or capable of established relationships.

But Francis didn't see himself as bad as that. Yes, he had slept with many people, but that had only been to find love, to find _real people_ under the masks of formalities. How were people supposed to get to know each other if they never showed who they really are and hid behind the etiquette?

That was the reason why Francis had soon found Arthur so enchanting; the Englishman hadn't buried his personality under useless politeness. Francis gave a small chuckle. Actually Arthur wasn't that polite at all, when one got to know him better.

Francis turned around and started walking back to Gilbert's apartment; the Prussian was probably back already, and the Frenchman couldn't help wanting to know how Arthur had been and what he had possibly said. Besides, he hadn't eaten yet, and after half an hour walking (and another half yet to walk back) he felt rather hungry – and Gilbert hadn't taken back his lunch invitation.

When he finally got closer to the block of flats in which Gilbert's apartment was, Francis' feet were irreparably wet and the cold rain still showed no signs of calming. The Frenchman quickly entered the hallway of the apartment house (Gilbert lived on the second floor) and shook umbrella, not wanting to bring all the water to the Prussian's home. He heard someone else's steps echoing in the corridor but didn't pay any attention to them – until he turned behind the corner to climb the staircase and faced Arthur, who was getting down them.

It was one of those moments when one could hear a tiny needle falling on the floor. As the Englishman noticed just who was standing at the base of the stairs, he froze. Francis didn't move either, looking up at the figure in the dim hallway. For several long, endless seconds the two men just stared at each other, and then, after eternity, Arthur continued coming down. Francis followed the wary, slightly hesitant movements with his eyes, remaining where he was. For the probably first time in his life, he didn't know what to do or how to speak. Seeing the Englishman just made him realise how much longing those few days after their fight really contained.

"Good afternoon," Arthur said coolly. He was now only few steps higher than Francis, and since the Frenchman was more or less blocking his way, he stopped.

"Good afternoon," the Frenchman replied almost questionably. So they were on formal terms now? How could they ever come to that? Everything had been supposed to progress so smoothly! Francis cleared his throat. "I'm going to Gilbert's now."

"Oh," Arthur said, "I just was there."

_This is ridiculous,_ Francis thought as he looked up at the blank face of the Englishman he had somehow along the way fallen for. _I should apologise to him._

"Arthur," he started, and it probably was his changed tone that made the Englishman tense. Arthur looked alert, ready to both flee and fight to death if needed. He reminded Francis of a rabbit, actually, of a cornered rabbit. The Frenchman stepped on the next step, shortening the distance between the two men to only three steps. "Listen..."

Arthur gave him a cold look.

"We need to talk," Francis said, taking one more step up towards the Englishman.

"Don't come too close," Arthur warned, nearly growling. He tightened his grip on his umbrella.

"About yesterday," Francis continued. He stepped yet higher, leaving only one step between him and Arthur.

The Englishman's whole body was reserved. "Don't you _dare_ come any closer," he hissed, emerald eyes wide in the dark.

Francis ignored it. Maybe it was because angry or not, Arthur seemed to attract him even against his own will, or perhaps because the Englishman had dared him not to. Either way, Francis took the fatal final step. "What I said-"

Arthur raised his hand and slapped Francis right across his face. Hard. It had happened too fast for the Frenchman to register the movement, but the burning heat where his cheek had met the Englishman's hand he felt without doubt.

"For your own good you should stop pushing your luck!"Arthur almost shouted and pushed past him, storming off into the rain.

Francis turned to look after him, but didn't even consider going after the Englishman. His pride, ridiculous or not, had been hit, and there was no way Francis would run after Arthur, pleading for forgiveness. He had given his part of effort; Arthur would have to give his, too.

Suddenly the Frenchman didn't feel like eating lunch in company anymore, and besides, he _had_ said Ivan that he would eat at his hotel. Not wanting to discuss his and Arthur's complicated relationship (which Gilbert would definitely force them to do), Francis turned on his heels and walked out, navigating back to his hotel. Fortunately it wasn't too far, since it would take too long to wait for an available carriage.

When Francis reached the hotel, he was wet, tired and exasperated, and regretted not returning back when he first had left Gilbert's place. Now he needed a hot meal with a glass of proper wine, neither of which he was going to get in that damned hotel or in whole England right away. Walking through the lobby, Francis saw from the corner of his eye a receptionist approaching him. _Now, if he is going to talk to me, I'll cut off his head, shove it down his throat and feed his body to other guests._

"Excuse me, Mr. Bonnefoy..."

Francis turned to the source of the sheepish voice, all smiles. "_Oui_?"

"There is a gentleman waiting for you to join him for a lunch..." the receptionist stuttered, seemingly frightened either because of the Frenchman's cheery smile or because he saw through it.

"A gentleman," Francis repeated nonchalantly. "Will I never get rid of them?" He sighed, but followed the receptionist into the dining hall. As he saw _who_ there was waiting for him, his spirits dropped even more; he had disliked the cool and slightly arrogant Austrian since the day he had met him.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Bonnefoy," Roderich said, standing up to shake the Frenchman's hand. "Pleasure to meet you."

"And what brings me this pleasure?" Francis asked, sitting down at the table.

"Straight to the point, I see," the Austrian hemmed. "So be it. I'm here to discuss Mr. Kirkland."

_Fantastique_, that was _exactly_ what Francis wanted to do. "What about him?"

"I have been given the impression of you two not being on the best possible terms," Roderich stated and Francis felt like punching him in the face. Whatever there was between him and Arthur, it had nothing to do with the Austrian! "And since I myself greatly dislike him, I took the liberty of doing something that would benefit both of us," the said Austrian continued in his steady tone.

Despite his inner feelings, Francis arched his eyebrow questionably "And that would be?"

Roderich explained. He spoke in a calm, unimpressed voice, not wasting any extra words but just enough to describe what he wanted. Their meals were brought while Roderich spoke, but Francis didn't even notice. He was focused on the words that left the Austrian's cursed lips, and each word made him grit his teeth more and more tightly. When Roderich finished talking, Francis did his best to appear calm and suppress all the anger that had risen within him.

"So," he said slowly. "Let me confirm. You bribed Ivan's sister to steal Arthur's documents and presented them to your associates claiming that it was _me_ who had given them to you, as if Arthur had sold me the information and I wanted to betray him?"

"Exactly."

"And all this to make Arthur lose his job?"

"I see you have understood everything correctly."

Had Francis been aware of the food before them, he would have grabbed that brown hair and smashed that infuriating haughty face right into the plate. But instead he clenched his fists and stared at the Austrian with all the hatred he could muster. "You _used me _in order to hurt Arthur," he all but growled, still barely believing what he had just heard. Both his French pride and care for Arthur made him loath the person in front of him more and more every passing minute. "Why?"

Roderich arched his eyebrows, which made him look rather disapproving. "Are you not pleased with these actions? For what I know, you were intending to defeat Kirkland in some game."

Francis didn't bother to answer. He merely glared at the Austrian, who shook his head almost pityingly. "I am taken aback by this," he said, as if it had been _him_ who had been misused. "To think that a gentleman like yourself would bond with him in any ways. But you needn't worry; I talked you out of any possible troubles concerning the company."

"That was not what I was asking," Francis remark sharply. "I asked, _why_?"

Roderich looked at him, and for the first time Francis saw something resembling emotions in his eyes – no anger, no sorrow, but perhaps something in between. "Why, you ask," Roderich said slightly bitterly. "For ruining _my_ life."

That didn't impress the Frenchman. "For ruining your life," he repeated nonchalantly, not convinced.

"Oh, I see he hasn't told you," the Austrian almost spat, and even though his voice was somewhat emotionless, it seemed treacherously calm. "I'll have you to know, Mr. Bonnefoy, that Arthur Kirkland, whose side you are choosing, killed my fiancé." Seeing the dangerous gleam in the Frenchman's eyes, Roderich continued before he could utter a word. "You have perhaps heard about the burning of the Kirklands' mansion several years ago."

Francis frowned, remembering the last day in Paris and how vulnerable Arthur had been that day. Yes, the Englishman had told him, but Francis had been left with the feeling that there was something more to it. So, if the Austrian knew more, he could as well hear him out. On the other hand, the Frenchman felt guilty for prying into Arthur's business like that; it wasn't for him to know unless the Englishman himself chose otherwise. But it was no secret that human nature was curious, and Francis wanted to know more. So, he nodded to Roderich's words.

"Well, that inferno was Mr. Kirkland's doing. His mother explained me everything. The boy had recklessly left candles around for the night – and with the results of that I have to live every day!" With every word, bitterness showed more and more clearly in the Austrian's voice.

Ah, so that's how it had been. It was Arthur's fault that the mansion had burned, and Elizaveta died there. Hearing all that, Francis could understand why it was weighing Arthur down so much. "You can't blame a young boy-" he started, but was cut off by Roderich. "I lost my love because of that young boy!" he practically shouted. "Elizaveta had gotten out already! But she went back into that burning hell for him, and he got out – alone! He had simply left her to die."

"She got trapped, what do you think he could have done?" Francis responded, not quite quietly himself. Roderich's view on the matter angered him.

"She was willing to give her life for him, he should have done the same!" Roderich hissed, and Francis got momentarily startled at the rage that had been suppressed under the calm cover for years. "It was all his fault to begin with!"

_She was willing to..._ Francis stared at the furious Austrian speechlessly. Pieces suddenly clicked together in his mind, forming the entire picture, and the words he had said Arthur echoed inside his head. "_Merde..._" He hadn't at any rate eased the burden the Englishman was carrying within him. "_Merde_!" he repeated, more heatedly this time.

Roderich, meanwhile, seemed to regain his composure and watched Francis with his cold eyes, saying nothing. He probably realised that since Francis didn't approve his doings, it was likely he would tell the company the truth, in which case there was nothing the Austrian could do about it.

The Frenchman, instead, had his eyes on his plate but saw nothing.

He should go back to Arthur's place and really talk with him. Even if Arthur had rejected his first try, which Francis now could understand a bit better, it was possible that if the Frenchman showed more effort to put things in order between the two of them, perhaps Arthur would, too. They could start their currently twisted relationship over – this time more openly with each other. At least they could try. Francis sighed; it would be difficult to swallow his dignity and apologise again.

But first things first – Francis would have to contact the rest of Arthur's associates and show them what kind of beast in a sheep's cloak they had trusted.

Or would he? Talking with the founders of the company would be interfering with the Englishman's life, which, Francis recalled, was forbade in the rules of the game. Breaking the rules meant losing – and Francis was fed up with it. It wasn't that he cared about the game anymore – it was his pride he wanted to protect.

Oh, their stupid game! Whose idea had it been in the first place? Francis rubbed his temples. What a nuisance it had become.

X

"_While you are saving your face, you are losing your ass."_

_-Lyndon Johnson_

_~X~_

AN: Hello everybody! So here we finally are, with the second last chapter! I'd like to thank all of you who have been patient with me and helped to keep me going with their comments etc. :) Great readers, I have.

So, the next chapter is the last (and after that there will be a tiny epilogue). Stay with me until then!

Oh, by the way. The way I have pictured Roderich in this fic, I actually imagine him to be in "reality", too. I don't know why, but to me, he is a nasty, slimy bastard. I'm sorry, everybody who like him, but this is the feeling I've got about him. n_n;


	13. Chapter 13

**The night of the hunter**

**Chapter thirteen**

"I see."

Kiku was shivering slightly of cold; the wind was particularly chilling that day. Arthur, too, tried to wrap his black coat even more tightly around himself, both to protect himself against the cold and to find his hands something to do in the awkward situation. "Yes, I... That's why I can't..." he stuttered and sighed, wishing he was better at handling such delicate situations. "I'm sorry."

"Please, Kirkland-_san_, don't be; I understand." The Japanese was as polite as always, even rejection couldn't crumble that. It almost made Arthur feel even guiltier, and having no idea of what to say, he just mumbled something and gazed uneasily at Thames.

"It is actually my own fault," Kiku continued, getting the Englishman to look at him again. "I should never have said anything – I'm returning to Japan in a month, anyway. I should never have let Bonnefoy-_san's _behaviour around you provoke myself."

"Erm," Arthur said.

Kiku turned to him and smiled his careful smile. "I wish you the best happiness with him and great success with your company," he said, happily unaware of the problems Arthur was facing with both Francis and the company. The Englishman returned the smile anyway. "Thank you, Mr. Honda. I wish the same for you."

Kiku bowed and turned to walk away. Arthur watched his retreating back until the wind got him tremble of cold and he started to walk home, too.

Not that he felt like going home. He didn't really know what to do there, how to kill time. Having no work to do, the word "relaxing" had somehow lost its meaning – all he could do _was_ relaxing. Besides, sitting alone in his apartment wasn't as pleasant as it used to be. Arthur had never minded silence before, but after meeting Francis, the peace had turned into hollowness.

Damn that frog, to hell with him! Arthur had done perfectly well without him before, so he could perfectly well do without him now, too. Actually, he already had; four days had passed since the fight and everything was fine, wasn't it? Well, the meeting in the Gilbert's corridor had been awkward, but it was a good beginning.

..._Of what?_ Arthur sighed as he reached his home. If his thinking made so little sense, perhaps he should not even think at all.

But there was still a problem that was yet to be solved: the game. The second part of the game had been supposed to be started on the very following day, but the circumstances being what they were, continuation of the game seemed highly unlikely. Unlikely, and yet just cutting the game was impossible. Arthur's (as well as Francis') pride wouldn't allow him to simply surrender, and it had even been stated in the rules that personal misfortunes wouldn't affect the game. But how to agree on the continuation with the Frenchman, now that was an issue.

Arthur opened the door of his apartment and stepped in when he saw something yellowish on the floor. It was a note, and it took Arthur several seconds to finally kneel down and pick up the piece of paper; lately the letters he had got had had nothing good in them.

Not to break the rule, the new letter appeared to be from Mr. Shireman again. It took all Arthur's willpower not to rip the note, and reluctantly he read the few paragraphs, in which he was asked if he could attend an extra meeting after the lunch time for there was something new to be discussed.

Arthur snorted; despite the polite tone of the letter, it wasn't like he was given any choices. Apparently his word had had no weight even when he still had been in the company, not mentioning now that he didn't belong there anymore. "Bloody hell..." he groaned and rubbed his temples. "What else do they want from me..?" An unpleasant lump started forming in the Englishman's stomach and he sighed. Well, he'd better start preparing himself something to eat before meeting his narrow-minded used-to-be associates again.

And that meeting didn't start any more pleasantly than the previous one; Arthur was sitting at the table with the other four men involved, each looking either grumpy or uneasy. Roderich's mouth formed a tight line, which was a sign that he was furious, Shireman coughed awkwardly and the rest three more or less maintained their composure but showed their disapproval by snorting once in a while. Arthur, for one, felt something between grumpy and nervous, and he still had the unpleasant feeling in his stomach – though he refused to believe that the lunch he had made had anything to do with it.

"So, Mr. Kirkland," Shireman began pragmatically. He looked tired and jaded, but Arthur felt no sympathies for him; didn't _Arthur_ have more reasons to be tired and jaded? "We need to talk about what is happening in this company."

"By all means," Arthur responded nonchalantly. Come what may – things couldn't go much worse anymore. Unless Arthur would be ridiculously unlucky, in which case there was nothing else to do but laugh at his life.

"We shall begin by apologising to you, Mr. Kirkland."

Arthur nearly dropped his jaw and indeed almost laughed. Apologise? Really now? He had been victimised without proper reasons and now, now he was going to be apologised to. Well, it was _logical_, but something in the situation was too comical.

Shireman looked troubled by his short laughter, and he cleared his throat to continue speaking. "It appears that our little group is – or should I say, _was_ – not as united and good-spirited as some of us expected it to be. You, Mr. Kirkland, have been outrageously misused." The chairman spoke solemnly, but there was an appalled tinge in his voice that was almost funny in all its seriousness.

"I am aware," Arthur said, concentrating back on on the topic. "And may I ask what made you that I was guilty for what I was accused of?"

"Well..." was the uneasy answer, but it wasn't finished by the chairman.

"I gave them false information about Mr. Bonnefoy paying me a visit and delivering the documents," a calm voice spoke, and Arthur turned his face to Roderich, astonished. "What the-" he started, but remembering that he was a gentleman after all and in fine company, corrected himself. "Say what?"

"I am certain you heard me," the Austrian responded, and Arthur wasn't sure if he had merely imagined the even voice cracking slightly. Not that he cared. At that moment, he didn't care at all.

The numb dullness inside the Englishman was rapidly being replaced by growing anger. The feeling of himself being deceived in such two-faced manner made Arthur feel both foolish and enraged, and he stood up so fiercely that his chair nearly fell backwards. His green eyes, sparkling dangerously, were fixed on the arrogant Austrian, who met the stare calmly, even though the emotionless shell was seemingly starting to crumble off his face.

"I demand an explanation!" Arthur spoke sternly. How dare that Austrian, his bloody _associate_, turn against him like that!

Roderich stood up, too. "Demand? Everything is your fault to begin with."

Something akin to disgust crept on the Austrian's features more and more visibly, and a vague memory of Francis warning Arthur that Roderich hated him flashed in the Englishman's mind. As, surprisingly, thinking of the Frenchman didn't improve Arthur's mood, he decidedly pushed him out of his mind. He only needed one problem at a time.

"Gentlemen," Shireman interrupted, his influential voice affecting both sides. "The reasons why needn't be discussed now and here, please do it afterwards. We shall move on to the consequences."

Slowly turning from the Austrian to the chairman, Arthur took his seat again, Roderich following his example. Shireman continued. "As it has been proved that neither you nor Mr. Bonnefoy are guilty, we apologise for our earlier conclusions."

"How was it proved then?" Arthur asked. "If even my own word was not enough?"

Shireman didn't even blink. "It's not for me to tell. We do not need to go into such details, they are not important." Before Arthur got to protest, the chairman continued. "Anyway, as we don't accept betrayal in this company, we shall no longer have Mr. Edelstein among us, as he already knows. What comes to you, Mr. Kirkland," The chairman paused for a short moment. "nothing will change."

That was something Arthur hadn't expected. "Excuse me?"

So, basically, he had been misused and fired, then apologised to and in the same sentence told that nothing would change! The least his associates could do was to give him his place in the company back – had he not worked loyally with them since the very beginning? He had, so why was he treated in the same way as the traitor?

He also stated that question aloud.

"The answer is obvious," Shireman responded (silence of the other three was starting to annoy Arthur). "I'd like you to remember that if you had been worth our trust, those documents would never have reached Mr. Edelstein without you knowing about it. Also, considering your absence during the last few weeks, we can not regard you as reliable in serious situations."

Arthur was left speechless. He shook his head. "This is ridiculous," he said after a pause. "Aren't you exaggerating a little?"

"We do not believe so, Mr. Kirkland."

So when the meeting ended, the Englishman was in exactly the same situation as before the meeting; the only difference being that now without the reputation of traitor. That part had fallen on Roderich.

Arthur exited the meeting room at the same time with the Austrian, the two of them leaving the remaining three to discuss the future of the company. Arthur was bitter; he had given his input along with the others and now it was all gone with the wind. And the one whose fault his miserable state was, was walking right beside him. The Englishman sent a glare his way. "Now I'd like to hear why you set me up," he said sternly.

Roderich fixed him with a single glance. "You think too highly of yourself if you believe you deserve an explanation," he said. "But I'll give it to you anyway."

_Well thank you for your kindness, _Arthur thought and rolled his eyes. The Austrian always seemed so cool on the surface, but in reality, he was quite melodramatic.

"You killed her."

The statement caught Arthur off-guarded. "What?"

"You killed Elizaveta," Roderich directed his eyes full of blame at the Englishman. "My fiancé."

Arthur stopped, shocked. Unpleasant surprises seemed to be following him that day. "She was your fiancé?" he asked, disbelieving. Elizaveta had chosen this... this _snake_ to be her companion for life?

"She was." The Austrian didn't say more; his tone explained everything.

For a moment Arthur couldn't think up anything to say, and Roderich continued walking without a glance back. Catching up with him, Arthur said firmly, "I didn't kill her."

Roderich said nothing.

"I didn't kill her," Arthur repeated, as to convince not only the Austrian but himself, too. "The fire was my fault, yes, but it was her own choice to come for me." And it was true. Arthur knew it was. Somehow, with every word, he felt knew confidence bubbling within him. He wasn't lying, right? "She was aware of the dangers. She made her own decision."

"And you made yours."

Arthur shook his head furiously. "She was trapped..."

"That's how you left her there."

"I tried to help her!" Arthur exclaimed. Blood was rushing in his veins, but surprisingly, he wasn't overwhelmed by the guilty sorrow he always was when thinking about those fatal events in his childhood. At least not as much as before. "I couldn't hep her, and he told me to leave... It would have been no use to die there and make her discontented."

Roderich looked at him, eyes filled with hatred and old, deep bitterness, then shook his head and turned away. "I know the truth," he said. "No matter how you keep denying it." And with those words, the Austrian stepped out of the building and headed to a carriage that seemed to be waiting for him.

Arthur watched his back for several seconds, then turned to the opposite direction and drew cold, humid air deep into his lungs. Heavy clouds were covering the sky and it looked all so grey around, but Arthur, on the contrary, felt lighter than he had for a too long time. It was actually funny; he had just been confirmed that he wouldn't get his job back and yet he felt good inside. It was almost like- Like Francis had said in Paris. Like deep inside, he had started to heal.

A gust of wind twirled around the Englishman and he smiled – slightly sadly, but smiled nonetheless. "Hello there, Lizzy... Care to accompany me home?"

And he was sure he heard bright, familiar laughter responding him in the wind.

xXx

The walk home did good to Arthur, and he decidedly pushed the darker side of the situation aside; now that he had plenty of time to worry, he could as well save on day for being careless.

It was when Arthur had prepared himself a cup of tea and grabbed a book (_Pride And Prejudice_, to be precise) to read that he was proved nothing was as simple as that. There were two sharp, demanding knocks on his door.

Groaning, the Englishman got off his sofa and walked to the door, wondering who it might be.

It was Francis.

Suddenly the peace that Arthur had just gained shattered all around of him. Seeing the serious face of the Frenchman so painfully close was too shocking for the Englishman at the moment, and before he knew what he was doing, he slammed the door closed before either of them could even blink an eye. His heart racing, Arthur rested his forehead against the wooden surface and tried to remember how to _breathe_.

"Open the door, Arthur."

"Sod off," Arthur muttered through the door, not really meaning for the words to reach the Frenchman.

"If you don't open the door immediately, I will," Francis said. His voice wasn't threatening; he was just stating facts. "It's not easy to stand here," he added.

Arthur closed his eyes, not knowing whether he could take it right then. But Francis was right; it must have been a real trial to knock on his door. And even though unwillingly, Arthur had to admit that Francis had taken the first steps towards the truce, not him. If he didn't acknowledge that now, it would be late – Francis would walk away and at least Arthur would spend the rest of his life regretting.

So he took a deep breath and opened the door. "Uh," he said, not quite looking into the paralysing blue eyes. "Come in." He gestured towards the living room and while the Frenchman was taking off his coat, went ahead. He was soon followed by his guest, who positioned himself on a chair opposite to the sofa. The sight was too familiar, Francis in his living room, and Arthur's head was suddenly filled with silent words such as _I'm sorry _and_ could we just start it all over again_. But he didn't say them aloud, he couldn't; he had forgotten how to speak. Francis didn't say anything, either, and the silence stretched between the two men until Arthur felt he would explode.

In vain attempt to fill the silence, he cleared his throat, determined to say something. This got the Frenchman look at him, and suddenly Arthur forgot whatever he was going to be say. But he had already opened his mouth, so he couldn't remain silent anymore. "Erm, I..." He tried to find the words, _any_ words, but failed. "I."

This, however, seemed to have given the Frenchman the small nudge he needed to begin. "I had nothing to do with it," he said. "With your company, I mean."

"I know..." Arthur felt a lump in his throat and tried to swallow it – unsuccessfully.

Silence.

"I," Francis said stiffly and avoiding the Englishman's eyes, "am sorry. About what I said back then."

Arthur raised his hand to the side of his forehead, rubbing it lightly. "I know. I..." He felt the words in his mouth and struggled to force them out. "Me too."

"I meant the very opposite of what I said."

"I didn't mean what I said, either." The words came out as a mere whisper.

_I love him_. The thought flashed quickly and subtly in the Englishman's mind, taking him by surprise and completely startling him. _Dear Lord help me, I'm in love with him... _Struck by the realisation, Arthur absently followed the trails of small scars on his left palm. _Great, now what?_

"What happened to your hand?"

Arthur's eyes jerked to Francis, who was frowning and looking at his hand. "Oh, this," the Englishman said nonchalantly. "Just... a small accident."

The Frenchman's frown deepened and he didn't look convinced, but said nothing nonetheless. He raised his eyes from Arthur's palm to his face and caught the Englishman staring. For few seconds their eyes locked together, filling the empty space between them, but then Arthur blinked and the moment was gone. Francis nervously tucked a strand of his wavy hair behind his ear and cleared his throat. "Gilbert has asked us to come at his place at around six tonight. He has something to inform about the game."

"Oh," Arthur said.

"Yes." The Frenchman stood up, looking somewhat uneasy. "Well, I should go now."

_No!_ everything in Arthur screamed, but instead of saying it aloud, he merely nodded and let the silence fall upon them once again. He followed Francis to the door and waited while he pulled his coat on.

At the door Francis turned to the Englishman once more. "By the way," he said, offering a small but very real and very honest smile, "I lost the game." And with that he left, shutting the door behind him.

Arthur was left to stare after him, shaken inside and horribly confused. What had just happened? Had they made up or what? Restlessly, he returned to his book and half-drunk tea. He lifted the cup to his lips and took a sip – the tea was still a little bit warm.

A tiny smile crept on Arthur's lips. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe they still had hope.

xXx

"You are late," Gilbert announced when he let Arthur in at quarter to six that evening. "Look, when even I'm on time, it's a shame for you not being."

"You're on time only because it's your place we are meeting at," Arthur retorted. "Besides, it's not even six yet."

"Gah, don't stick to trivial matters."

Entering the Prussian's living room, Arthur saw that indeed, he was the last one. Francis was already sitting on the sofa, and even Ivan was there, sitting beside the Frenchman. Gilbert slumped down on his armchair, leaving Arthur to choose whether to sit beside Francis or on a separate chair.

Hesitating just a bit, Arthur chose the separate chair; the awkwardness about his and Francis complicated relationship hadn't evaporated anywhere. Sitting down, Arthur saw from the corner of his eye the Frenchman observing him, but chose to pretend as if he hadn't noticed.

"Well?" he said, keeping his eyes on Gilbert.

"What? Oh," the Prussian absently swayed his hand. "Right, so how was that company thing?"

Well, that hadn't been Arthur's point, but he shrugged and answered indifferently. "They kicked me out."

"Kicked you out?" Francis repeated and frowned.

"Yeah. Though they apologised me first. By the way, Gilbert, it was your uncle who had set me up."

The Prussian made a face. "I just _knew_ Roddy was plotting on something nasty."

"But how?" Ivan took part in conversation. "My sister had turned him down."

"Your sister?" Arthur asked, threading, but was ignored as Francis cleared his throat. "Actually," he said, casting a wary glance at the Russian beside him, "she didn't."

Ivan's eyes narrowed dangerously. "What did you say?"

"What the fuck is going on?" Arthur interrupted, completely puzzled. What did Natalia have to do with anything?

Francis turned to him to explain (or to escape the Russian's violet stare, Arthur wouldn't know). "Roderich bribed Natalia to steal the documents from you when she would be cleaning your apartment."

Arthur's jaw dropped. Could you trust bloody _nobody_ these days? "How the hell I'm the only one who didn't know?" he grumbled to himself, but Gilbert caught that and rolled his eyes. "Usually the victims are not informed about the betrayal," he uttered and grinned, as if he had said a funny joke.

Francis raised his eyebrows at the Prussian. "Very true Gilbert," he said somewhat sarcastically. "But isn't it ironical? Apparently this 'Roddy' of yours got Natalia to his side by revealing her where you live, so that she can keep a better eye on her brother."

There was a second of silence, during which Ivan paled and Gilbert's face got through various expressions before settling to a horrified, wide-eyes look. "_Schei__ß__e!_"the Prussian jumped up off his armchair. "Shit! Fucking shit!"

Ivan, too, stood up and approached the window, intending to keep an eye on streets nearby.

Somehow Arthur found it hard to suppress his laughter, and Francis didn't even try; the startled, cursing Prussian was quite a sight. Gilbert himself, however, wasn't nearly as amused. "All those freaking times felt someone was watching me in the shadows... Fuck it! Shit!"

Ivan, too, shuddered and went to make himself a shot of vodka before returning back to his place at the window. Arthur looked longingly at the shelf where Gilbert had his alcohol and sighed; he surely was in a need of a glass or two of whiskey.

To distract himself himself from his desire and in order to prevent his cousin from freaking out any more, the Englishman changed the subject. "So... What was it you wanted to say about the game?" he asked Gilbert, who had slumped back on his chair.

"Oh, right, that!" The Prussian seemed to regain his energy as fast as he had momentarily lost it barely a moment ago. "Yeah, guys. It's over now. Game over," he said and laughed. "So, as your awesome judge, I declare Francis to be disqualified. Which means, you won, Artie."

"Say what?" Arthur glanced at the Frenchman, who now, in turn, ignored his questionable look. It was Gilbert who offered an explanation.

"He broke the rules," he said, standing up and going to the shelf with different drinks. "Interfered with your personal life, you see."

"How?" Arthur asked, persistently looking at Francis until the Frenchman no longer could ignore his stare. "If you didn't set me up, then-" Arthur blinked in realisation. "So it was _you_ who told my associates the truth," he stated slowly, as a mater of fact.

Francis shrugged and flashed a smile that made the Englishman's heart skip a beat. "Well, I couldn't let myself be simply used like that, could I?"

Carefully Arthur returned the smile. "I guess you couldn't." As Francis didn't turn his dizzying face away, the Englishman felt himself flushing a bit and stood up to join Gilbert at the shelf. Yes, he seriously needed a drink right now.

"Don't get drunk, I won't be carrying you back to your house ever again," the Prussian uttered and headed back to his seat. Arthur filled his glass with whiskey and turned to claim his chair again, too, but apparently Ivan had decided it to be ideal place for lurking the window. The only free places left were on the sofa beside Francis.

"Hm," the Englishman said, sitting down about half an arm's length from the Frenchman. "Well, who would be leading the game if... if the _frog_ hadn't broken the rules?"

Francis gave him a sly look and crossed his arms on his chest, and Gilbert grinned widely. "Easy! I have no idea about the cities, but Francis had far more addresses. But," He gulped down his drink, smiling smugly, visibly satisfied with himself. "more importantly, his superiority in seducing is proved by the fact that he got someone as idiotically stubborn as _you_ fall for him."

Arthur nearly chocked on his drink. He coughed and felt his face heating up. Even without looking he just knew that the bloody frog was smirking beside him and watching him with his cursed blue eyes. Why the hell did Gilbert speak of them like they were a couple already?

"You-" he tried to growl, but coughed again, and the Frenchman shifted slightly closer to tap his back. Even when the hand was long gone, Arthur could feel it on his back as a hot print through his shirt. He was about to snort something when Ivan joined the conversation. "If skill is a requirement for superiority," the Russian commented calmly, "I would say Arthur is a better seducer. Because, after all, it indeed shows great skill if someone like him got someone like Francis falling in love with him."

"What's wrong with you people?" Arthur blurted, mortified. Gilbert first grinned, then started laughing like a maniac. Ivan simply smiled in his own, weird way, having not insulted anyone in his own opinion – simply spoken the truth.

And then Francis burst into laughter. The laughter bubbled from deep inside of him, and suddenly Arthur couldn't get his eyes off him. How long had it been since he had heard Francis laughing like that, so freely? Too long. Too long.

"So if that's how it is," the Frenchman managed to say, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, "Arthur truly deserves the status of the winner." The deep blue eyes watched straight into Arthur's, a serious question behind the glee. "Or what do you think, Arthur?"

"Certainly," the Englishman found himself answering. "Besides, well," he added, smirking. "you just couldn't go without violating the rules."

Francis tilted his head, not letting either of them turn their gazes away. An unreadable smiled crept on his face. "But Arthur, didn't you know?" he asked, leaning just slightly closer. "_All is fair in love and war._"

Arthur's mouth went dry and unconsciously he leaned towards the Frenchman, too. "And which one is this?" he asked hoarsely, and Francis knew exactly what he meant. Slowly he leaned forwards and closed the space between them, gently touching the Englishman's lips with his own, as if asking for permission to do so. Arthur's breath hitched from the unexpected contact, however light it was. It felt like eternity since they had touched each other in that way... or in any way for that matter. Arthur didn't shy away, and that was all Francis needed. He suddenly pulled the Englishman rather roughly closer and attacked his mouth with almost desperate hunger, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss. Arthur gasped, his mind going blank, and threw his hands into the golden locks, pulling at them as the kiss deepened. Francis growled when his hair was being pulled and for a good measure, bit the Englishman's bottom lip. That provoked Arthur to do something more in order to not to lose the battle, but before he could, Gilbert's loud voice cut through into their consciousnesses, making them pull apart.

"Hey, guys, I don't care if you are fighting or making out but _not on my sofa!_" Despite the superficially irritated tone, the contentment in the Prussian's voice was evident.

Neither Francis nor Arthur, however, paid much attention to their friend. Francis smirked widely and victoriously at the Englishman. "Did you get your answer?"

Arthur couldn't help grinning in response, even though Francis was a bastard for avoiding giving straight answers. But the Englishman didn't care. His heart was beating like crazy and blood was rushing in his veins and he was _alive. _Yeah, he couldn't care less. "That was not a proper answer!"

"In that case," Francis said, "We have to find it out together, _non_?"

And strangely, for once, Arthur felt like agreeing with him.

X

"_It is better to be defeated on principle than to win on lies."_

_-Arthur Calwell_


	14. Epilogue

**The night of the hunter**

**Epilogue**

"_Arthur_."

Francis watched as the Englishman turned his gaze from the murky sea and gave him a questionable look. The wind was messing the short, sandy hair and throwing raindrops all over the green-eyed man. Despite it all, he was idly resting against the railing of the ship taking them to France. His whole appearance was relaxed, and there was an absent look in his emerald eyes. He looked stunning.

Francis couldn't help a warm smile spreading on his lips and for a while he said nothing – just watched his Englishman, his companion, his lover. His Arthur.

Slowly Arthur returned the smile, and Francis loved the way his fascinating eyes were shining – so bright, so real. And only for him.

So he said the only words he had never said before; the only words that he had been saving, that were true. The only words even Arthur would understand in spite of his lack of knowledge in French.

"_Je t'aime._"

The wind was singing as the green eyes widened and lit up at the same time, and Francis saw understanding washing through them. He looked at Arthur and smirked, remembering something.

"Time to start learning French, _chéri_?"

The sea was grey, clouds were heavy on the sky and it was raining, but neither Francis nor Arthur were cold; nothing was as marvellous and warming as a kiss shared with the one you truly loved.

X


End file.
